


Heart of Menagerie

by shimanamii



Category: RWBY
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bumbleby Big Bang 2020, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Violence, Nonbinary Blake Belladonna, Uncharted: The Lost Legacy AU, gay lore hell yeah, they're soulmates this time around too and they're even more obnoxious about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimanamii/pseuds/shimanamii
Summary: Blake Belladonna never expected to return home to a Menagerie in the throes of a seemingly unavoidable civil war. She didn’t expect to have to team up with a notorious mercenary, either, but she needs Yang Xiao Long’s help if she wants to recover the land’s lost relic: a ring of legend, stolen from the Gods centuries ago by a Faunus princess and said to be located deep in the Grimm-infested Heart of Menagerie. And they’re not the only ones looking for it; Adam Taurus, an insurgent warmonger and a demon of Blake’s past, will do whatever it takes to claim the ring’s fabled power for himself.(Uncharted: The Lost Legacy AU)
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 121
Kudos: 161
Collections: Bumbleby Big Bang 2020





	1. Unrest

**Author's Note:**

> Hugeee thank you to my BBB partner, Eru, who really blew me away with their art for this fic!!
> 
> [link to it here!](https://erughostcat.tumblr.com/post/634456352306184192/bbb2020-heres-my-project-for-the-bumbleby-big)

There was nothing in Menagerie worth coming back to. That was the conventional wisdom, at least, that once you got out, you had to do all you could to stay out. Or else you’d get stuck, end up stagnating in the island’s airless wet heat. Feeling that familiar humidity now, feeling it gather and settle on her like a heavy net as she wandered the markets, Blake found it hard to argue with conventional wisdom.

So why come back? She’d been asking herself that question from the moment her ship had set out for Kuo Kuana, but every answer she landed on felt _off_. Felt like half the truth, or like she was avoiding it—like she’d become a runaway again, dodging the sweep of light beams under a starless sky. Was it obligation? A guilty conscience? After all the wrong she’d done, she knew that anything so simple and decent as “doing the right thing” was beyond her.

Come to think of it, maybe she’d never stopped being a runaway. Maybe she’d always been that.

Lately, she’d been remembering an old Menagerian fable, the one about the careless fisherman who killed a sea goddess, Mazu. It was a story about something done that couldn’t be undone. About regret. In the end, all the fisherman could do to atone was throw himself into the water to feed Mazu’s hungry children.

“I like the lilac one best.” Blake came out of her thoughts with a jolt, turning to find a young girl peering back at her from beside the market counter (more a collection of crates and boxes), her white-tipped tapir ears swiveling curiously. The girl added, earnestly, “It brings out your eyes.”

Blake allowed herself a glance in the mirror leaning up against the tent post. Her eyes. The shape was her mother’s, but the color, her father’s—or they once had been. Ringed in sleeplessness, the gold in them dulled like old, smooth coins, they were a stranger’s. Blake pulled the shawl from her head, her cat ears twitching free. “Does it,” she said, flatly.

But she did need the camouflage, flattering or not. Menagerie was different from how she’d left it a decade ago. Tottering on the edge of civil war—as if the Faunus really needed another battle to fight. As if the rest of the world wasn’t already holding its breath, waiting to see when they would destroy each other.

Insurgents, most of them White Fang, were growing bold, and the country’s own military was practically nonexistent, less a formal force than a collection of chieftain sympathizers. And to think that if things were different and her father hadn’t sent her and her mother away to Vacuo, Blake would’ve been snared right in the middle of that. Or maybe if she hadn’t turned her back on her past, on Menagerie, things really _would_ be different now.

She turned away from the mirror, smoothing the shawl out on the counter. The fact of the matter was, Menagerie hadn’t been her home for a very long time, and the chieftainship had long since changed hands. She hadn’t finally come back just to get caught up in a pointless war. The less entangled she got in that mess, in the ego trips of men and their plays at power, the better. Naïve to think, but for once, she could even be somebody who _stopped_ bad things from happening.

The girl moved from her perch by the entrance to man the register, stepping on precariously stacked crates to reach it, and Blake blinked in surprise. “You run this store? By yourself?”

“My father used to.” She pointed above the counter to a creased picture of a man with boar tusks. “He’s away fighting the rebels.”

Blake stared at the photo, feeling a strange irritation sink into her. “Called up by the Menagerian Army?” Bare-bones as it was, she wouldn’t be surprised.

“He volunteered.”

“Ah…” It was hard to know how to respond to that. Blake thought that might’ve been worse, a man deserting his child by his own choice. (Why couldn’t she shake that irritation she felt gnawing at her? It wasn’t her problem.) “So, um, how much is the shawl?”

“That’ll be fifty Lien, please,” she crowed, which was obviously a stiff price. Blake wasn’t heartless enough to haggle with a kid, though. She sighed and dug into her pockets for cards, setting aside the silver statuette with the milky moonstone eyes. The girl’s gaze fixated on it immediately. “Better deal. Twenty plus your Brother of Darkness.”

Blake stacked on top of the others the remaining Lien, pocketing the figurine again—an antique paperweight, as far as she could tell, of the God of Darkness in fabled draconic form. Incidentally, the only thing of her father she had left aside from scattered memories. “Sorry, kid. Brother’s not for sale.”

“It’s Nilam,” she girl said, her cheeks puffing out sulkily. “What’s your name?”

“Blake.” She threw the shawl over her head again and ventured out into the bustle of the market, her eyes scanning the street for any signs of the transport truck. It was almost dusk, but her eyes could pierce the dimness just fine.

Nilam hopped down from the counter and followed. “Like the lost princess?” Blake stiffened. Catching her surprise, the girl added, “My father tells me stories about the old chieftain sometimes. He’s always saying that one day the lost princess will return to Kuo Kuana and bring peace back to Menagerie.”

If they could see their “lost princess” now, see what kind of person she’d become, Blake thought, they wouldn’t have any prophecies left to tell. The truck suddenly came into view, just before the bridge, and Blake began weaving through the throngs of people. “That’s a nice story, but I would pick a new savior if I were you.”

As she was pushing through the crowd, Nilam darted past, causing Blake to bump into an older woman. Blake apologized softly, registering Nilam’s hands folded behind her back when she turned around again, her ears raised conspicuously.

Blake scoffed and crouched down by the girl, holding out her hand. “Decent lift. You should work on your tells, though.”

Nilam puffed her cheeks out again, returning the God of Darkness to Blake’s open palm. “You’re not as trusting as other foreigners.”

Even without the Vacuan accent she’d picked up in her youth, it was hard to argue that she wasn’t just another foreigner. Menagerie, after all, was so unrecognizable to her now. Foreigner or not, though, most people didn’t have Blake’s kind of skillset. Or her experience. “I’ve learned better by now,” Blake said, her fingers curling around the Brother’s twisting horns.

She approached the bridge, spying an opening through the soldiers standing guard, but Nilam grabbed her arm. “Nobody’s allowed across the bridge. That part of the city is too dangerous.”

Blake stooped and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, staring into wide, brown eyes. “Nilam, I need to get on that truck. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important.”

Chewing her lip, Nilam nodded and moved out from under Blake’s hands. “I can help you.” She ran out and approached one of the soldiers before Blake could stop her. “Sir! Sir! I can’t find my dad! I lost him in the crowd—” The soldier, looking bewildered, let her drag him away toward the market.

Blake smirked, mildly impressed, and slipped past, climbing onto the back of the truck unseen. She hunkered down by the boxes of supplies and peered out, catching Nilam’s eyes. Blake gave a small salute as the truck pulled away, bound for downtown Kuo Kuana.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Two messages, from an unknown number.

_pink lotus rooftop_

_don’t be late, princess_

~

You’d expect Faunus would be tired of wars, or at least wary of what they could bring. After the Great War decades ago, humankind’s show of “good faith,” their reparations to the Faunus, had been Menagerie. A wasteland, as it happened, two-thirds uninhabitable desert and deadly jungle. A zoo to contain the riffraff. Little wonder that so many were itching to leave. Then again, where could they go? Where were the safe havens for _them_? Sometimes worse fates awaited you than Grimm attacks and overcrowded streets.

And now, even Kuo Kuana was becoming uninhabitable. Though Blake had always considered it that. She set to work on a locked door, fumbling a little with the pin. She’d done this more times than she could count in the White Fang, though, apparently, she’d grown a little rusty in the time since. The streetlight suddenly flickered on, harshly illuminating her, and she cursed under her breath, hearing footsteps echoing in the alleyway. Heavy, like boots. Probably a soldier, one of the dozens—Fang or otherwise—roving the streets like starving wolves, marauding, ousting stragglers from their homes. Beating any who fought back.

The lock made a decisive _click_. She darted inside, softly shutting away the orange glow of the street behind her. Now it was just a matter of finding a way _up_. Quietly. Carefully.

That text message still hovered in Blake’s mind like smoke trapped in a room. _Princess_. So her contact had studied up on her past. That could go poorly for her, considering who it was she was getting mixed up with. A mercenary’s only loyalty was to the promise of Lien, and this particular mercenary was formerly known throughout Anima as a bandit. Blake had to be wary of being sold out before her expedition into the Heart even started. Play it as close to the chest as possible. Besides, Blake as a rule trusted few humans, especially Mistralians. (And Atlesians even less than that. Her time in the Fang had taught her that much.)

The buildings in this part of the city were unstable, their foundations crumbling from the fires. Like sandcastles on some ravaged beach, swallowed up by the waves. Blake picked her way carefully through the moving silhouettes of soldiers grumbling amongst each other about when they could expect to _finally get out of this shithole_. Blake thought they were lucky she had somewhere to be, and then wondered why it was her pride felt so stung. She had her memories, but this place wasn’t her home. These people weren’t her people. Not anymore. She had to repeat that to herself until it stuck.

She jumped out onto the fire escape, trying not to think about how it groaned beneath her, climbing the rickety metal ladder to the roof. A strange light bloomed through the gaps in the patterned blankets on the clothing lines. Ducking under them, Blake emerged into a world on fire. An apocalypse.

Or that was how it seemed. Columns of smoke and the sounds of gunfire billowed out from distant buildings. All of downtown Kuo Kuana was black-gray and smoldering, like the embers at the heart of a bonfire.

“Gods,” Blake breathed, clinging tightly to her shawl. She hoped that those who’d seen the signs to get out had actually done it while they could. If this was Menagerie before the war had even begun in earnest, she wondered if there would be anything left to claim when it ended.

There was another ladder leading to a higher vantage point, and she took it without looking back at the burning city below. (If she looked back now, she didn’t trust that she would be able to take her eyes away again.) She could spot it now, the “pink lotus”: the bright pink neon sign of what was or used to be some sort of seedy lounge below—or worse. Not that she had any plans to investigate.

Blake dropped down to the lower roof, small pools of rainwater splashing her clothes, glittering in the light. Her eyes scanned the rooftop and discovered no one. Even though the Mistralian ought to have been there. Dread seeped into her against her will. Had she already been betrayed? Was this some kind of a set-up? An ambush?

Maybe she’d made the wrong choice, after all. The thought, the dawning realization that maybe her gamble hadn’t had a chance from the start, sent her off-balance, as if the roof had cracked beneath her.

Her phone buzzed, startling her. Just one new message this time. At the edges, her vision darkened and narrowed to a pinpoint.

_shift changed – get off the fucking roof_

Before she could even register the warning, the door to the roof flew open with a bang and three men in pale Grimm masks emerged. White Fang. Former brothers of hers maybe, but more than likely they were new recruits, resentful Faunus taking advantage of the tipped hand. (A lifetime ago, she was the same way. Just as angry. Just as eager to see those above her fall from their towers.) They fell silent when they noticed Blake, who for a long, horrifying moment could only freeze in place. She quietly cursed herself. If she hadn’t let her concentration slip, she would’ve heard them coming from a mile away.

And that was just her own fatal flaw, inescapable, or so she’d been told—her coward’s heart. How she was a deserter in the end, every time. How she let herself sink down into fear, and ran away when things got too intense.

But running was impossible now. The head of the posse, a man with scales on his face, scowled and strode forward, grabbing her wrist. She bit down on the bolt of panic it sent through her. She bit down on it and tasted blood. “You’re in the wrong place, girl,” he said.

“I know.”

Pivoting, she twisted his arm in the opposite direction and drove a hard kick into his ribs before he could even think to show his surprise.

The other two exchanged bewildered glances before making a lunge for her. She flung the shawl in their faces and dodged cleanly through the gap between them, whirling to slam a heel between the other rebel’s shoulder blades. He pitched forward heavily into the first, knocking them both to the wet concrete.

The one still standing took advantage of her dropped guard, grabbing her from behind. “Hold still,” he hissed. Blake threw an elbow into his face and heard a satisfying crunch and a shouted curse, but he didn’t loosen his hold on her enough for her to slip free.

“Nice one.”

Blake barely ducked in time to avoid the sole of somebody else’s boot to the face. The man with his hold on her got it instead, which rearranged his nose even more and sent him flying back into the wall.

Gasping to regain her breath, Blake staggered to her feet and came face to face with—well, to begin with, a truly unsettlingly beautiful woman. Pink in the light, and burning. Wild blonde hair in a high ponytail, flyaway curls falling into violet eyes as clear and striking as sun through stained glass, though hard-edged in danger. (There was danger in her wild grin, too.) Powerfully built and muscular as a mercenary ought to be, the knuckles of her left hand splotched purple with bruises as if she’d been in another fight just before this one. The other arm wasn’t flesh but gleaming metal, a bright yellow cybernetic.

“Where the hell have you been?” Blake snapped.

“A damn pleasure to meet you, too.” The Mistralian socked a charging attacker square in the jaw, dropping him like a sack of stones.

The remaining rebel spat and pulled a knife, but Blake reacted first, kicking high, knocking it out of his hands. As if she’d read Blake’s intent, the mercenary delivered the finishing blow like a flash of light on water, too fast to track with the eyes. A strike to the gut, and then a right hook so bone-rattling Blake almost felt it herself, and he collapsed in a heap (missing a molar or two.)

The heat of the moment dissipated, Blake’s eyes wandered to the prosthesis again. It was scuffed here and there with use, sure, but it was a hell of a piece of equipment. No question, it was Atlas tech. Though whether the arm had been obtained through any kind of lawful channel…probably wasn’t a question, either. Yang Xiao Long was born to bandits, after all. Her mother had basically been the bandit _queen_ throughout Anima up until the whole mercenary gig became the better deal for the Tribe. So, in spite of the fact that she’d just kind of saved Blake’s ass (in spite of the fact that she was, again, unforgivably attractive), Blake could recognize trouble when she saw it.

That said, she really could use skills like that in her corner. Just until she saw the mission through. “You’re late, Xiao Long,” she said. “You call that professional?”

“Look, I got a little held up on the way over. In case you haven’t noticed,”—the mercenary gestured vaguely to herself—“I’m not the most inconspicuous person in Kuo Kuana. And of course I’m talking about how hot I am.”

Blake grimaced. “Please take this seriously.”

“I always am, princess,” she replied, with a wink. She crossed to the other side of the building before Blake could react to that, peering down into the alleyway. “Besides, there’s your guy now. Who I went to a lot of trouble to tail for you, by the way. In a city on the brink of literal war. So, you’re welcome for that.”

Blake stepped up beside her and peered down, as well. Sure enough, there was Yuma, his oil-black bat wings rustling impatiently behind him. “Still looks like the same smug bastard,” Blake muttered. She turned, catching curious violet eyes. “Where is he keeping it?”

She shrugged. “Where else? Top floor.”

Blake glanced up and saw the balcony, the faint glow of lantern lights through the glass door. That simple, huh. “Alright. Let’s get moving, Xiao Long.”

The mercenary shook her head and ambled closer, leaning into Blake’s space. Not making any threats, but not completely innocent, either. “I know you want this to be _professional_ and all,” she murmured, “but just Yang is fine, too, you know?”

It was suddenly a little hard to answer. Stupid. She was being stupid. “Fine. Yang.” Her lips parted slightly when Blake said her name, the edges of her teeth illuminated in neon pink. “And while we’re at it? You call me ‘princess’ again, I’ll kick your ass. That’s a promise.”

“Blake, then,” Yang said, in a lower voice. A different voice.

A feeling hummed through her she couldn’t describe. Or, that she didn’t want to describe. “Just try to remember who’s in charge here,” Blake said, leaning away.

Yang folded her hands behind her head and gave her a slow, appraising sort of look. It was impossible to tell if there was a genuine feeling behind it or not, or what kind of feeling there was. Finally, she dropped her hands and laughed. “Don’t think anyone’s ever threatened to kick my ass before, you know. Well, not to my face—”

“Look, are we clear or not?”

Something finally seemed to throw her. Make her bristle beneath all that bravado. Was it pride? That chip on her shoulder?

She wasn’t the only one who knew a few compromising secrets. Blake at least knew that some ambitious lieutenant had stolen the Tribe ( _her_ tribe, her entire legacy) right out from under her nose. And she wanted it back—badly enough to accept the offer of some exiled thief, enough to follow her into the Grimm-infested wastelands of Menagerie for an artifact no one in this century or the last had ever seen.

Yang recovered in an instant, grinning with her teeth. “You just point, gorgeous, and I’ll shoot.”

~

“They’re gone. Start climbing, I’ll cover your six.”

Blake placed a boot against the side of the drainpipe and cast a dry look over her shoulder. “You know, I think you’ve been a little too focused on my six.”

She started up anyway, Yang just below, chuckling softly. “Likewise appreciate your close attention to my, uh, twelve.”

Blake set her jaw and looked straight up. (With so many damn buttons on her shirt undone, where was she _supposed_ to look?) “Well, I’ve got to keep an eye out for any sudden knife in my back, mercenary.”

“Glass houses, Highness.”

“I told you—”

“Right, right. I guess you’re actually _ex_ -royalty, right? ‘Ex’ a lot of things, as it turns out.”

Blake was silent. She hooked a leg over the railing and dropped onto the balcony. Yang landed silently behind her. (Actually, Blake hadn’t been sure at first if “silent” was something Yang could do, but she was proving herself to be quite agile and practiced in her movements. Which was about as reassuring as it wasn’t.)

“I like to know my employers,” Yang added, conversationally.

Blake turned to face her, almost caught off-guard by how little space there was on the narrow balcony. How little space there seemed to be in the world anytime Yang bent her head and drew close. But, somehow, Blake didn’t feel cornered by it, that presence of hers that blotted everything else out. She knew what it was like to feel like that, and this was different. She didn’t know why it was different. “You’re not too smart if you agreed to this anyway, then.”

“Oh, sure I’m smart. And anybody’d tell you that I’m stubborn, too. I don’t do anything halfway.” _I can believe that_ , Blake almost said. But who knew how a thing like _that_ would land. Better to play things clean, distant, as free as possible from any…insinuations. Though it was hard not to get swept up in the her current. Yang stepped around her and Blake felt almost relieved. “As far as finding this magic ring or what-the-fuck-ever in a dangerous wasteland, sadly, I might be the best bet you have. That’s why you wanted me.”

“Because of your sparkling work ethic,” Blake said, flatly.

“Because the only thing I’m interested in, aside from _generous_ compensation for my troubles when this is all over, is seeing things through. And I’m damn good at it.” Yang rolled her shoulders, the gears of her metal arm clicking together. “Can’t say I’m a fan of your friends in the White Fang, either, though. I’m about as interested in letting them finance their little militia as you are.”

So maybe that was half of it, her reputation, her history. Aligning interests. Or…something. Some reassurance that whoever this mercenary really was even beneath that easy, self-contained way she held herself, beneath that brightness, she was at least as unlike Blake as possible. Or maybe Blake just didn’t want to think of herself as someone callous enough to take advantage of somebody else’s desperation.

“For the record, it’s not just some magic ring. It’s an ancient relic that belonged to a famous warrior princess, Matahari.” Blake reached into her pocket and felt the God of Darkness’s cold, horned head. “The legend is, it’s imbued with power she stole from the Gods to bring her beloved, Bulan, back from death.”

Yang whistled. “Some intense shit.” Blake expected Yang to look indifferent, but what she saw in those eyes when she risked another glance was the opposite. Something like the spark of a lighter in darkness. “And do you believe it? The legend?”

“I don’t know,” Blake admitted. “I’m not sure I believe in magic or gods, but I always heard that story growing up. And I suppose, one way or another, there’s always truth to myth. What matters, though, is that this ring, along with the rest of the what’s supposedly buried in Matahari’s tomb, is valuable. _Really_ valuable.” Some fucking Atlesian private collector certainly wouldn’t think twice about carelessly financing a war that had nothing to do with him, would he? “I can’t risk anything like that falling into the White Fang’s hands.”

Yang leaned back against the railing and folded her arms. “I was under the impression that you weren’t interested in the civil war here. Why go so far to stop the Fang?”

“The war isn’t my fight, but the Fang is my concern.” Blake knelt by the door and pulled her hairpin from behind her ear. She hated the feeling of Yang’s gaze on her back. “I’m atoning for my own fuck-ups. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Sure.” There was sudden shatter as Yang broke in a panel of the glass door with the side of her fist and turned the handle.

Blake sat back on her heels and glared up at her. “I was going for a quieter approach, you know.”

“And I was going for a faster one,” Yang said. “After you.”

Lit only by a few lanterns, the dim office was like a dragon’s cave, littered with the spoils of war. Not just valuable “seized property” from civilians but much older artifacts, as well. So the White Fang had made progress toward the Heart, after all. That made things more complicated. Blake picked up a worn marble figurine from one of the shelves and stared at its serene carved face. The headdress was tarnished gold, patterned like sunrays, and the figure’s folded wings were gold, as well.

“Who’s this?” Yang asked, wandering over to her side. “A deity?”

“Matahari.” Blake set it back on the shelf. “You can tell by the headpiece. Her name means ‘sun,’ in the old language. And her lover’s name, Bulan, means ‘moon.’ The Ancients were obsessed with the symbolism of the Brothers, so I guess it’s not a surprise that their culture, all their stories, reflect that. Light and darkness. Forever repeated and intertwined.”

At the far end of the room was a tall, wide window. Through it, the lights and the fires from the city below were visible, faintly illuminating the dark corners of the room. She didn’t know why it unsettled her as much as it did, all of this history, these pieces of lost culture—to be pawned off to the highest bidder for a few crates of Dust. For weapons. Power. Predictable of men, but no less terrifying.

Yang rifled through scattered papers on the disorganized table in the middle of the room. “I didn’t know there were Menagerian ancients. I always thought this continent was only settled after the Great War.”

“Well, the Ancients all died out,” Blake said, shoving books out of the way. “Probably overrun by Grimm. Too close to the Heart to sustain their way of life forever. Or maybe it’s as the legends say: that the Gods, for Matahari’s sin, took their retribution out on all of Menagerie.”

“This country’s fairytales are something else…” Yang muttered. A moment later, she made a triumphant noise and produced a small, wooden box from beneath the pile of papers. “This what you’re looking for?”

Blake took it from her and turned it over in her hands. It was locked, of course, but that didn’t do much to discourage her. “It definitely looks promising,” she said, taking the pin from behind her ear again.

She lifted the lid and Yang couldn’t seem to resist peering over her shoulder to catch a glimpse, as well. The golden Brother of Light with his sunstone eyes—there it really was. Blake almost couldn’t let herself believe she was holding it in her hands. It felt heavy in her palm, the weight of something much larger than the glorified paperweight it appeared to be.

But suddenly there was the thunder of footsteps in the corridor, voices shouting to each other, and in an instant the White Fang was flooding the room, weapons drawn. The glow of the lanterns threw their silhouettes sharply against the back wall, like rows of spikes. Blake stepped back from the table, slowly pocketing the statuette. She scanned the throng for Yuma but didn’t find him.

“…Blake.”

Her body went cold when she heard that voice, as if the blood had gone still in her. It was a voice she wished so desperately, the nights she found herself curled tightly into a ball in the corner of her bed, that she could erase from her mind completely and forever. He stepped out from the heavy shadows of the doorway, his black horns glinting in the lantern light like polished metal, his mask that concealed the eyes shining like bone. She felt herself freeze, felt—distantly—Yang watching her. Even more distantly than that, she heard the rain start to fall softly against the window behind her as everything else went silent as the dead.

“It’s been quite a while, my love.” He tapped the hilt of his sword with his forefinger. “But something tells me you’re not here to beg forgiveness.”

Her stomach turned violently. “Adam, how…” She could barely force herself to speak. As if she was trying to shout underwater. “ _How_ are you here?”

He grinned, as if she’d just told him something funny. “Not expecting me? Well, I can’t say I was expecting to see _you_ here, of all places, either. For your sake, I hope you’re not planning on getting in my way. Again.” The smile slipped from his face, and he stepped close, close enough that Blake could smell the smoke clinging to his clothes. The night, too. And, most strongly of all, the metallic tang of blood that she knew couldn’t possibly be his own. “Are you, Blake?” he asked, in a voice that was deceptively quiet. Serene, even. But she also knew the thing that was next, the teeth behind the close-lipped smile. And even now, after everything, she was scared of him, and she hated that part of her even more than she hated him.

“By the looks of it,” Yang cut in, startling her so much she took an involuntary step backward, “you’ve made plenty of progress into the Heart already.” She plucked an old-looking engraved knife from the shelf beside her, drawing Adam’s attention. At first glance, she only seemed indifferent, but the longer Blake looked, the more she could feel it—that danger that lived in her, the burning thing always beneath the skin. Yang twirled the blade between her fingers, holding his gaze. “But you’ve hit a rut, and you’re growing impatient. I can tell.”

After another stunned moment of silence, Adam scoffed and refocused on Blake. “And here I was, wondering what had become of you. You turned your _back_ on me, on everything we worked for, just to—what? Come crawling home to Menagerie at the end of a human leash?” His lip curled. “Just how low will you sink?”

Yang stopped twirling the knife. “Actually, I’m at the end of hers. That’s kind of how the whole ‘mercenary’ thing works—”

“I’m plenty aware of how your kind operates,” Adam snapped, finally seeming to lose his patience. “Like a parasite. Exploiting somebody else’s cause to fatten your own pockets.”

“True, but…” Yang lifted her other hand, revealing the Light dragon nestled in her palm. Blake started, patting her pocket to find it empty. Yang must’ve lifted it from her in the commotion. “Maybe it’s _that_ attitude that’s kept you from cracking this artifact, no?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Blake hissed, under her breath. A really fucking risky way to buy time, if that was what she was after. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with buying time.

It was buying favor. The thought struck her as if somebody had cut some counterweight in her and both ends had come crashing down. She watched Yang’s wolfish grin unfurl and realized that this might be the real moment. The real betrayal. Who had the winning side, after all? A man with an army at his disposal, ragtag as it was, or some displaced Menagerian royal without allies, who had no one she could turn her back to without paying for it—not even and least of all herself?

Adam tapped the hilt of his sword again. “And you can, human?” His attention seemed to flicker between Yang and the God of Light. “Crack it, that is.”

“You could say that I’m a…collector of rare antiquities. Much like you, it seems,” Yang replied, turning the statue slowly in her hands. “I have a knack for finding things that don’t want to be found.”

“Xiao Long,” Blake said, grabbing her arm. “I asked what the _hell_ you’re doing.”

Yang’s eyes slid to her and the expression in them was unreadable. “I’m trying to cut a deal, Belladonna,” Yang said, as if it were obvious. Blake held her gaze, waiting for something in it to crack, waiting for a sign, but found nothing.

Adam barked out a laugh, and Blake’s head snapped back to him. He was furious; that much was obvious. Waves of it were rolling off of him, but he didn’t want to look like he wasn’t the one in control, especially not in front of his men.

“I’ll admit,” he said, finally drawing his blade from its sheath and leveling it in Yang’s direction, “it takes a lot of fucking nerve to break into my office, steal from me, and try to play me for a fool in the same breath.”

“Ah, so that’s a ‘no,’ then.” Yang raised her metal arm. A gun attachment in the wrist snapped out, which she aimed right at Adam’s head. The soldiers behind him bristled, seeming unsure how to react. “Glad we got that sorted out.”

“Looks like your dog’s about to bite, Blake,” Adam snarled, casting her one last glance. “What will it be? Will you cling to your depravity, or get on your fucking knees and see if I’m feeling merciful?”

Blake didn’t know what had changed. Why she could look at him, just for a moment, with the fear washed out of her—a murmur in the back of her mind. With just the hot sting of her pride left. Just her rage. She raised her head and stared back. “I didn’t come here to apologize to you,” she said.

He held her eyes for just a moment longer before spinning away from them. “Then you came here to die.” He sheathed his sword. “Shoot them. Throw their bodies in the river.”

“No need,” Yang said. “We’ll throw ourselves out.”

She kicked the table over, knocking the lantern to the ground and sending up a plume of fire as it shattered and caught on the scattered papers. The soldiers and Adam jumped back, and Yang was already grabbing Blake’s arm and sending them both hurtling through the window at the other end of the room.


	2. Tick on the Fur

Blake picked restlessly at the dressing on her arm again, watching the water part around bow of the boat. She was still sore and stinging all over, but…she supposed she should feel lucky that, gambles and unwelcome reunions and jumping through windows aside, she and that reckless Mistralian had made it out of the city mostly in one piece. And with both artifacts, whatever they were really worth. She turned them over in her hands, one and then the other, examining them for whatever mysteries they held. There was always a key—that was what her father used to say.

Vapor rose up from the thick undergrowth that framed the banks. The sun had risen over the river a while ago, turning the surface of the water silk-like and green-gold. Most of the journey into the Heart would have to be on foot, but the river carved at least some of the way inland. It gave her some time to think, figure out next steps (with Adam’s insurgents no doubt on their heels). Not to mention, she’d have to factor in some contingency plans for the likelihood that the mercenary would just swipe Matahari’s treasure and run. Blake wasn’t so naïve, after all. Well, she doubted she’d do anything different, in Yang’s position—it took a self-preserving lowlife to know one.

A journey into the Heart wasn’t something to undertake alone. Blake figured the smart call was playing nice until you got your hands on what you came for. In Menagerie, there was a saying: _Don’t befriend the wolf; be the tick on its fur_. (Though, who in this scenario was supposed to be the wolf, Blake wondered?)

Blake sighed, setting the Brothers back on the table. She wandered to the back of the deck and leaned against the railing, still rubbing her arm. Maybe that kind of cynicism was just in her blood.

“You should be careful with that, chief.”

She turned to see Yang emerging from the cabin, cheerfully nursing her own scrapes. (Though her right arm had protected her from the worst of the glass.) Blake let her hand fall. “Again with the dumb nicknames…” She had to admit, though, it was leagues better than _princess_. “I’m fine.”

Yang stretched, loudly popping her back. She grabbed two rucksacks from the deck, tossing one to Blake. “Are you? You didn’t get any sleep.”

Blake slipped the straps over her shoulders, feeling herself shrink back from her own skin. “What, were you watching me?”

That steady gaze, even as the mercenary squinted against the sunlight, perceiving more than she let on—why did Blake feel so strangely peeled-open under it? “Watching you not sleep?” Yang joined Blake at the railing, grinning crookedly. “Nah. You’ve got some serious bags under your eyes. Chronic bad sleeper or chronic worrier?”

Blake felt suddenly too conscious of herself, her face, of whatever expression was on it. It didn’t help that Yang, of course, looked like somebody out of a dream, fucking ethereal, that hair she was undoubtedly proud of loose around her shoulders and full of light. “Is there a difference?” And maybe her own voice was too soft, too much like a confession. She leaned away (somehow, they’d drifted so close together). “These stupid statues…even if I could figure them out, I doubt they’d give us much of an edge.”

Yang scooped them from the table, studying them side-by-side. “Over that creep we ran into back in Kuo Kuana, you mean?”

“…Adam Taurus.” More than leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, speaking his name felt papery and sharp-edged like a curse. Like all it took was speaking it, just that, and bad things would start happening again. “Apparently, he climbed the ranks after I left the Fang. He’s going to be a problem.”

Blake could feel the curiosity radiating off of her. Which was surprising, since Yang didn’t exactly seem the type to hold her tongue on anyone’s account. Either the mercenary had a thoughtful side or Blake was just imagining things.

She remembered without meaning to how Yang had drawn Adam’s attention away from her back at the penthouse, but she’d been too full of adrenaline then to really consider what that meant. How it seemed like Yang wasn’t just watching her closely, but…going out of her way to protect her. Another surprise. It made her stomach twist uneasily, something at the back of her head murmuring, _You know how this goes, don’t you?_

“Obviously, the two of you…have a history,” Yang said, carefully. Though Blake felt herself grimace at the word anyway. “So, what’s this guy’s endgame?”

“I’m sure he’s convinced the people who follow him that he’s doing this for the sake of something noble. For the sake of the Faunus.” Well, it was easy to be taken in by that promise. After all, Blake had once thought that, too. “But Adam’s only in it for himself. He’s driven by this—this _compulsion_ to make everybody else hurt for what the world did to him.”

“Some wannabe tyrant running on pure spite.” Yang tossed the God of Darkness in the air and caught it, as if measuring its weight. “I’ve seen his type before.”

Yang tossed it in the air again and Blake, feeling a flash of annoyance, snatched it, curling her hand tightly around the sharp, horned head. “Look, I know everything’s a fucking joke to you, but he’s not someone to take lightly just because we got away from him once. He’s dangerous.”

After a small, stunned moment, her eyebrows lifting wordlessly, Yang rubbed her neck and looked out over the water. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” Blake, not exactly expecting the sudden apology, found herself at a loss for how to respond. Her palm stung, but the pain of it felt foggy in her mind. Yang clucked her tongue under her breath, her gaze falling to Blake’s hand. “You’re doing it again.”

Before Blake could react, Yang reached and unwound her fingers from the statuette, so gently all she felt was the grazing warmth of Yang’s hand. Blood pooled shallowly in the dip of her palm from where the horns had pierced her skin, smearing the dragon’s cold silver body.

“Shit.” Blake leaned down over the railing, washing the figurine in the water, wiping the blood with her thumb. Though when she pulled it from the river again, she had to look twice at it. Its color had changed. Before a pale silver, it was now the color of coal, as if tarnished or burned. Blake turned it over, mystified, and saw the faint symbol appear on the bottom of the star-shaped base, a serpent shape, a hooded head. “A Naga…” she mumbled to herself.

A shoulder pressed against hers, gold filling her periphery. “Looks like you found something.”

“I should’ve known…” Blake brushed Yang off, crossing to the front of the boat, staring out at the vague outline of the riverbank ahead. “The _Moon Gate_.”

Yang joined her at the bow, folding her arms over her chest. “Another Menagerian myth?”

“The story of Matahari and Bulan describes two gates to the realms of the Gods. The Sun Gate and the Moon Gate, both said to still be guarded by a terrifying creature.”

“Fun for us. Gonna assume that this Moon Gate is connected to the God of Darkness somehow?”

Blake held the statue up against the scene of the river framed by jungle. “It’s the gate to his former mortal domain. The Grimm that guards it—”

“Big fucking snake?”

“That’s…” She blinked. “How did you—?”

“ _Big_ fucking snake—get down!” Yang pressed them both flat to the deck, a shadow—no, an underbelly, plated with oil-black scales, passing over both of them that for a moment blotted out all the light of the climbing sun.

It disappeared, and Blake elbowed her off to peer over the railing, but the sudden lurch of the boat only made them trade places, Blake now pushing Yang back against the deck. She blinked the spray of river water from her eyes and a look passed between them that probably shouldn’t have, Yang sprawled out and wide-eyed beneath her.

Awkwardly, Blake shifted back on her haunches, leaving Yang room to crouch beside her. She risked a glance and saw the Naga raise its head from the water, its monstrous body coiled and glistening beneath it. The hood with the repeating eye pattern fanned out like a canopy and Blake couldn’t help but recall the legend about the Naga Mother, who once stretched out her hood and plunged all of Menagerie into darkness—a time known as the Long Night.

Yang whistled. “I’ve tangled with one or two King Taijitus in the past, but I’ve never seen a Grimm like _that_.” There was a series of clicks, and Blake turned her head in time to see Yang’s robotic arm expand along with that flashy gauntlet on her left wrist (Ember Celica—once a matched pair, according to Yang). Yang stood and threw her elbow back, the gauntlet swallowing her whole forearm, cocking like a shotgun. “Guess that’s just what I signed up for.” 

That wild grin was back, all teeth and no humor, and Blake felt a ripple of anticipation cut through her own body. She didn’t know if that was terror or the opposite. If her heart was sinking in her or climbing.

Yang tossed Gambol Shroud to her, and she unsheathed and collapsed the blade. “If it spits, don’t get caught in the line of fire,” Blake said, readjusting her grip. “That venom will melt through anything. Even Atlas tech.”

“Sneering at Atlas tech, are you?” Yang smirked and leveled her arm at the Naga’s head, as if judging the distance. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Taking a running start from the stern-end of the deck, she fired off two quick rounds that whistled and burst like firecrackers, interrupting the Naga’s line of sight. She thrust off from the railing, using the blast of her gauntlets to propel herself high and then higher into the air as the Naga let out an earsplitting hiss and struck the place Yang had been a moment ago.

Blake dodged as its nose split the deck down the middle, grappling into the trees that lined the bank, Gambol’s ribbon tight in her hands. She crouched on a high branch, her mind racing. When the Naga turned, she thought. They could move faster than the eye could track, so when it turned, she would have to anticipate its next strike. If she stayed in the treetops, she could probably put some distance between her and the Grimm, but then there left Yang, still—

Something flashed in her periphery, the spark of light off metal, and Blake looked up and saw Yang hurtling back toward the ground like a falling star. Or…like those descending figures from the murals in Vale’s cathedrals, the ones illuminated in gold, enacting divine justice. The Naga was right beneath her now.

The impact sent up a splash like an explosion, the Grimm’s head crashing heavily into the river. The spray cleared and Yang stood atop it, her hair whipping about her face. She caught Blake’s eyes in the trees and threw her fists up. “Hell yeah! You see that, Bla—? _Oh, shit_ —”

Suddenly, the Naga’s body rose from the river like a giant plume of smoke, blackening the sky, water streaming from its mouth. Yang lost her footing, cursing as she tried (unsuccessfully) to grab onto something as she slid down its back.

“That fucking idiot,” Blake hissed. So much for all the poetics.

She hooked Gambol into the tree ahead and swung down after Yang, running along the serpent’s back. Her hand shot out half-blindly and Yang grabbed it the next instant, kicking off from the Grimm’s side, which sent them in a wide arc toward the break in the trees.

Blake grunted, feeling her hold on Yang start to slip, the jungle floor rising up to meet them sooner that she was expecting. They tumbled into the undergrowth, skidding to a stop at the thick, gnarled roots of a towering tree.

Yang sat up. Laughing, of course, a little breathlessly. “Thanks for saving my ass back there, chief.” She winked. “You looked pretty dashing, by the way. Swooping in all heroically like that.”

_Dashing_ , huh? Blake would be lying if she said that didn’t give her some unexpected pang of satisfaction. Even if it was just a stupid joke. “You’re heavier than you look,” Blake mumbled, rotating her arm.

“Oh, come on. It’s all muscle, you know.”

“That’s what they all say.” Blake found herself, against her better judgment, returning Yang’s dumb, crooked grin.

There was a low hiss that broke through the leaves, and Blake shot to her feet, dragging the mercenary up with her. The Naga’s sight was poor, but its other senses were finely tuned—it could find a rat in a mine, or so records claimed.

“We should get moving,” Blake said. The rest of the supplies back on the boat weren’t worth going back for; they’d have to make do with what they had on their backs. “The Naga is fastest on the water, but it can still track us through the jungle. Don’t drop your guard again.”

“Somehow, I knew you’d hold that one over me.”

Blake ignored her, slicing hanging vines and gnarled underbrush away from the path ahead. This close to the Heart, the trees were like petrified giants. That was the first thought that came to her. No doubt they were very, very ancient ( _old as the Gods themselves_ , as the trawlers at the fringe of Kuo Kuana liked to say). Their root systems looked dense, interwoven, and it made the path beneath their feet difficult to navigate without stumbling.

And the jungle was a little too quiet here. That was the second thing she noticed. The chatter of insects and birds was all around and above them but somehow muted, as if all of it was on the other side of glass.

“Look here,” Yang said, gesturing Blake over. “The ground looks sunken in.”

Sure enough, there was some kind of enormous, winding trench leading from the riverbank. Blake stooped to take a closer look, noting how deep and smooth it looked, how old. As if something had passed this way for centuries. Something big. “This looks like the Naga’s hunting route. Or one of them. I bet if we follow it…”

“It’ll lead us to more big snakes?” Yang finished.

“Or more ancient secrets.” Blake stood and went back to clearing vines away.

“You’re such an optimist. Well, I’ll take your word for it.” Yang followed, her gaze lifting toward the treetops. Blake watched the shadows of leaves move across her face. “You definitely seem to know a lot about this place. And how to handle yourself.”

“Can thank my dad for that.” Gambol’s edge wedged itself in an exposed root, and Blake grunted, putting her foot up against it to dislodge the blade. “Menagerian history, ancient legends…those were kind of his thing. When I was a kid, back when I still lived in the palace, I would hole up in his study and just devour any book I could get my hands on.”

“You lived in a _palace_ , huh…” Yang wrestled her hair up into a ponytail, stray curls clinging to her neck. “You ever try to track him down? After you left the Fang?”

Blake paused, one cat ear swiveling to the side. The rustle of wings approaching, but scattered, punctuated by high-pitched screeches. She pulled Yang behind her, Gambol’s blade a blur as she slashed through a sudden cloud of Ravagers flying out of the darkness between the trees. Their spiny, bat-like bodies dropped at their feet and disintegrated.

“You’re not very subtle, you know.” Blake turned, nearly brushing noses with Yang, who had been busy gawking over her shoulder. “You were actually wanting to ask me something else, right? You’ve been wondering why someone like me needs someone like you.”

Yang stepped back and shrugged. “Well, I guess I _was_ curious about why you accepted my offer. Seems like you could’ve saved yourself the trouble—”

“And gone it alone?” Blake finished, raising an eyebrow. She sheathed Gambol over her shoulder and set off on the sunken path again. “Only if I had a death wish.”

Only fools, she thought. Only fools left everything, everyone, behind and went looking for treasure in the Heart with only a rucksack and their own stubbornness.

“You’re trusting your back to a bandit,” Yang pointed out. “Isn’t that—?”

A gunshot split the air, and when Blake looked back, she saw the wisp of smoke rising from Yang’s gauntlet, the Sabyr springing from the undergrowth turning to ash mid-lunge. That _look_ flickered between them again, precarious as the light of a match, something verging on recognition. Though of what, exactly…maybe it was better to leave some stones in the path unturned.

“I think I’ll be alright,” Blake said, sounding more self-assured than she felt. “And, honestly, having an outsider around is reassuring, in a way.” The ring was too wrapped up in meaning for Menagerians, a symbol of power—the divine kind. Whoever claimed it could just as well claim the chieftainship. “I don’t have to doubt where your stake is in this.”

Yang laughed, but there was a strange, hard edge to it. “Getting awfully comfortable, aren’t we?” Her shoulder brushed Blake’s as she passed. “Ah, what’s the saying here? ‘Don’t make friends with wolves’…”

Blake watched her for a moment, the sway of her ponytail, the broad back. Comfortable. Maybe these things did, strangely, feel that way to her. “Be the tick on its fur,” she murmured.


	3. The Long Night

“Fucking hell, look at _that_. A big snake hole. Full of big snakes.”

“You don’t know that.” Though Blake had to admit, at first glance, it was hard to tell her she was wrong. At the end of the well-worn Naga trail, in the middle of a wide, rocky clearing and the high grass, there was some sort of perfectly circular cavern or pit. Vines and roots crisscrossed the ground around it like veins at the surface of skin. There was a strange and ancient energy everywhere in the jungle, but here it felt somehow…hallowed. As if they had stumbled into a place that sat only halfway in the earthly plane.

“Right, excuse me for assuming,” Yang said. “Glass half full? Could be full of treasure. Or gates. Or, you know, _more snakes_.”

“I’m starting to think you have a phobia, or something…” Blake scaled the mouth of the cavern and peered down over the edge. “Anyway, it’s flooded.”

Yang climbed up beside her, kicking a rock loose. It plunked into the water far below. “Well, well, well…” She snorted. “See what—”

“I see what you did there, yeah.” Blake peered closer, shading her eyes from the sun, which had only crawled steadily upward since they’d started their hike from the riverbank. “Might just be a Naga den, like you said. Part of me thinks it could be something else, though.”

“Something useful? We can’t exactly afford to waste our time out here.”

“Right…”

Maybe she wasn’t imagining it, whatever it was she was seeing deep in the center of the clear, still pool that filled the pit. The gleam of some sunken glass eye. Like a mirror, something reflective. Blake doubted it was visible to Yang at this distance, even keen-sighted as she was for a human.

Her gaze traveled up to the place they were standing. The rock and dirt Yang had displaced from the lip of the cavern had left that part of the stone bare. There was definitely something unnatural about it, something that would strike anyone as constructed. Blake scraped the heel of her boot against the edge, and then crouched to rub away the rest of the moss and grime with her palms. Beneath it all, a crescent moon shape, like a raised scar on the weathered stone. And then, as she cleared the edge, more, a pattern—the phases of the moon. Between them, star-shaped notches, six-pointed, a size and shape she…recognized. Oh, she definitely recognized it.

Blake took the Brother of Darkness from her pocket and fit it into the indent in the ridge, pressing down until she heard a click, the scrape of ancient stone on stone. A pedestal rose from the center of the water, atop it a moonstone the size of a peach pit. A series of lenses surrounded it like glass petals around a flower head.

Yang crouched down next to her, leaning close as she brushed the carvings with her fingertips. “You’re a fucking genius,” she said, blowing out a breath.

Personally, Blake would’ve mostly chalked it up to luck (if you could call getting immediately attacked by a giant monster “luck”), but she wasn’t one to snub a pretty girl’s praise, either. She turned her head toward Yang, raising an eyebrow. “How much do you wanna bet we found our Moon Gate?”

“Bet against you?” Yang smirked back at her. “Yeah, not a chance.”

Blake stood and stretched, lacing her fingers behind her head. “They’re not making it easy for us, though. Hope you came prepared to get wet.” She glanced back at Yang, who was slowly, wordlessly, pressing her lips together, as if suppressing a smile. “Ugh, grow up—”

“I didn’t say anything!” she protested, throwing her hands up, though she couldn’t quite keep that grin she’d been fighting from spilling into her face. “Anyway, if this is really a _gate_ , I…can’t really say I see a way through.”

That was true enough. It was frustrating, running up against one of the Ancients’ trials when they were so close to real progress. Having the artifacts wouldn’t even matter in the end if they couldn’t even figure out how they worked. Even the Gates themselves were shrouded in mystery. Blake wasn’t sure if they would find the answers they wanted, if any at all.

“I’d say I was worried about losing daylight out here, but…” Yang’s gaze narrowed and scanned the fringe of the clearing, the way the jungle was moving and still at the same time. “I’m more concerned about that Naga catching up to us.”

_Losing daylight_. Blake pocketed the statue, the small flicker of an idea taking shape in her mind. A very stupid idea, as it happened. But Yang was right. They didn’t have time to lose if they wanted to keep a step ahead.

“Those flares of yours,” Blake said, suddenly, turning to Yang. “The ones that make a lot of noise? I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to use those to draw the Naga.”

Yang opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You’re right, it sounds crazy—”

“And I need you,” Blake interrupted, pressing her fingers to the inside of Yang’s elbow, “to trust me.”

After another small, stunned moment of silence, Yang seemed to relent a little, pushing her bangs back from her forehead with the heel of her palm. “I’ll be the first to say it, then. This is the worst plan you’ve had yet.” She stepped back, cocking Ember Celica. “But…you point, I shoot, right?”

The shot sailed high over their heads, bursting above the crowns of the trees in a scattering of light, and Blake watched the jungle shadows, the mouth of the Naga’s trail.

If the Fang was anywhere close, watching the skies, this would draw _him_ to them, too. Blake knew that perfectly well. But that was a thought she couldn’t afford to think about. She had to force it down before it stopped her in her tracks, swallowed her whole.

The eyes appeared first, bright red and sudden like the blood that beaded up from a needle prick. Then the purplish tongue, flicking out like a whip. That low hiss reached Blake’s ears first, raising the hairs on the back of her neck, and a moment later, she saw Yang tense beside her.

“And now?” Yang muttered.

The Naga’s body undulated through the tall grass like waves on water. There was no question that it had caught onto their scent. But there was something almost methodical about its movements, as well, as if it’d sensed that it had backed the two of them into a corner. Most Grimm weren’t so discerning, only knew how to sink their teeth into whatever was in front of them. But the old Grimm, the guardians of the old places, were patient in a way that chilled her. Like they’d seen the same faces, the same ambitions, over and over again. The same fates.

“Wait,” Blake whispered back.

“ _That’s_ your master plan?” Yang’s hands seemed restless at her sides. “Get eaten by the big Grimm?”

“I need it to raise its head. Just for a moment.”

“Right. To get a better look at us before it—”

Annoyance needled at her. “Could you not with the running commentary for like, two seconds?”

“I’ll have to raise my rates for that, Belladonna.”

She’d said it flippantly enough, but when Blake glanced at Yang again she saw the gleam of sweat on her temple, the jaw clenching and unclenching. The tense movement of the eyes, gauging the narrowing distance. So it protected her, that confidence. The same way that Blake at times froze and fell silent, Yang laughed right in the face of it. Jumped in the mouth of it. And, sure, the realization _complicated_ Blake’s impression of her. But she couldn’t let it confuse things between them.

Just when the Naga seemed prepared to gather its body beneath of it, raise itself up from the ground, just when it drew close enough that Blake could start to make out the milky shine of fangs, a shot rang out from the tree line, drawing the Naga’s attention sharply to the sound.

Yang cursed. “Looks like your friends have already caught up to us.”

For a moment, as her mind flashed to him, Blake imagined she saw Adam standing there in the shaded boundary of the clearing, one finger steadily tapping the hilt of his sword. But once again, she saw exactly the person she hadn’t been expecting to see.

“Ilia,” Blake breathed, her gaze falling to the frowning girl standing alone in the grass, the green-and-black patterns of the forest melting from her skin.

In the Fang, it was Ilia who had taught Blake how to move silently through trees—Blake couldn’t help but wonder for how long they’d been followed. How long Ilia had watched them, camouflaged, waiting to intervene.

Blake didn’t want to think it, knew she couldn’t afford to in the moment, but those old memories hit her harder than they had in a long time: the two of them, fresh recruits in the Fang, still at that restless, scabbed-knees age. The way their shoulders touched sometimes, the way Ilia sometimes glowed pink in the dark. _He said that?_ The disbelief that colored her voice. _Tell me if he says it again. Tell me, okay? I’ll break his teeth._

Ilia seemed to waver when their eyes met (or maybe they met—the mask made it impossible to tell for sure.) She stumbled a half step backward, twigs snapping under her heel. Her mouth opened as if she was about to say something, but the next instant, the Naga blurred into Blake’s periphery, blacking out the space between them.

Blake felt herself let out a small sigh of relief when she caught Ilia’s distant figure darting away, evading long, gleaming fangs. If she’d been just a little slower, a little less agile, she would’ve been seeing the inside of the Grimm’s stomach.

“Literally any other circumstance,” Yang said, “and I’d feel a little happier about somebody else keeping that Naga busy.”

Blake watched as Ilia dodged its attacks, using her whip-like weapon to swing into the high branches of the trees. The Grimm reeled back, its mouth wide open and bruise-colored and dripping, spitting razor-thin lines of venom. Ilia avoided it, but just barely. Blake heard the high shriek, saw Ilia fling the mask aside as it dissolved into a tangle of warped metal, saw the surface burns on her skin. Ilia retreated into the cover of trees, and the snake, slowly flicking its tongue, followed her into the jungle.

“ _Blake_.” Yang’s voice startled her. Blake turned and found herself being studied—not kindly or unkindly, not intently but not carelessly either. “Gods, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Yang was holding herself back from asking something again. Blake could sense that. “We were recruits together, a long time ago,” she found herself explaining. But there were so many missing parts to that it was almost a lie. “She’s dangerous,” Blake added, clamping down on the feeling. “I’d prefer not to waste time fighting her if we can avoid it.”

“You don’t want to fight her,” Yang observed, just a little too gently.

Blake almost snapped at her for that, for twisting her words, but maybe Yang hadn’t twisted them. Maybe Blake just wasn’t being as careful as she thought. “I’d rather it not come to that.”

“Which is all well and good, but we need that Grimm’s attention on us.” She waved her hand. “For what I’m sure is a totally sane and sensible reason.”

_I don’t know about sane and sensible_ , Blake thought, peering down into the well. “If I had to guess, based on the legends…this Gate won’t open for us in the daytime. We would have to wait for nightfall.”

Yang’s eyebrows shot up, a short laugh bursting out of her. “Nightfall is a pretty long way off. So we’re doubly fucked, then?”

“Not necessarily. The Ancients have a lot of myths about the Nagas as guardians, secret-keepers. And there’s…there’s one story where the Naga Mother opens her hood and turns the day into night, and I know this all sounds _completely_ batshit when I say it out loud—”

“Okay, just so I’m getting this right,” Yang interrupted, crossing her arms. “You had me paint a big flashing target on our backs in this jungle where everything wants to _kill us_ so you could test out your half-baked theory about the Gate?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“Great. And you think, what? Casting a little shade over it will open it?”

“If we canopy the whole thing? Keep the water from reflecting light into the mechanism? It might.”

“ _Might_ —” Yang seemed like she didn’t know whether to look incredulous or impressed. “I know I’m one to talk, but…honestly, I thought you’d play things a little more self-preserving out here.”

Some strange impulse took hold of her, almost intoxicating. Blake stepped into Yang’s space, steadily lifting her eyes. “Losing your nerve?” she asked, with a quirk of her brow.

Yang rocked back on her heels for a moment and then leaned in, recklessly close. “Nah,” she said, her head slightly tilted. “You’re gonna have to try a little harder if you want to scare me off.”

And Blake wasn’t sure quite what to do with that, a bandit’s word, even less than she knew what to do with that subtle, heady gravitation she felt between them. Or maybe it was Yang’s assurance in particular—the assurance of somebody so full of contradiction—that troubled her.

“Well…good to know your head’s in the game.” Blake reached over her shoulder, unsheathing Gambol. “Because I can hear that Naga circling back.”

“Of course,” Yang said, wriggling the fingers on her robotic arm. “Everything wants to take a bite outta me.”

Blake couldn’t even think to ask what that meant before a figure came bursting out of the forest—Ilia, sprinting in their direction, wide-eyed, her weapon gripped in one hand. The next moment, the Naga glided quickly through the tall grass, as well, fast on her heels.

Halfway between the pit and the tree line, Ilia stumbled and skidded out against the rocks, scraping the palms of her hands raw. She scrambled backwards, her skin turning gray, making her invisible against the stone.

_That’s useless_ , Blake thought. _The Naga can still smell you_. She felt her body move without fully recognizing it was happening.

“Hey, what—?” Yang reached for her, but her hand only grazed her.

Sliding down the lip of the cavern, Blake aimed and shot the Naga in the eye while its head was bowed toward Ilia. It released what she could only describe as a guttural, almost human scream, its head thrashing backwards, its tail whipping. When Ilia reappeared a moment later, Blake swung Gambol toward her, the weighted end of it wrapping around her waist, and yanked.

Ilia was flung out of range, venom striking and corroding the spot where she’d just been lying.

With a crack of the ribbon, Gambol flew back into Blake’s hand, the blade unfolding. “What are you _doing_ here, Ilia?”

Ilia got to her feet, unsteadily. “Thought I’d ask you the same question.” She flicked her wrist, her whip—electrified and needle-sharp—unfurling out toward Blake. It glanced off the flat of Blake’s sword in a spray of sparks. “This isn’t like you! Sticking your nose into something like this. Teaming up with—” Her eyes shot to the side, surely landing on Yang, who was still standing at the top of the well. “You’re being stupid and you _know_ it.”

Yang gave an irritated scoff. “Says the girl who got between us and that Grimm a second ago.”

For a moment, Ilia’s entire body flushed a furious scarlet. “This _doesn’t concern you_ , human,” she snapped, leveling the twin barrels of Lightning Lash on her.

“Wow.” Yang raised her eyebrows, glancing at Blake. “Your friends are pretty rude, chief.”

“Guess I just invite trouble,” Blake muttered, her fingers flexing around Gambol’s hilt.

“Ah, that’s nothing.” Yang rolled her shoulders, which Blake could only take as a sign of some imminent disaster. “Watch _this_.”

She cocked Ember Celica, and Ilia tensed, bracing for it, but Yang pivoted, sending a round that flashed across the field like a meteor—straight into the Naga’s gaping mouth.

The Grimm, one-eyed, the other side of its face pumping some dark, viscous-looking fluid, seemed to lock in on Yang, surging forward, but Yang, with a cocky parting wink to Ilia, let herself fall backwards, down into the well, sending up the last of the flares left in the gauntlet’s chamber.

“ _Dammit_ , Yang—” Blake scrambled up the side of the pit after her, diving down into the rippling darkness of the water below. She thought she heard Ilia shout something, but her voice was lost when Blake went under.

It was cold in the pool, colder and deeper than she’d even imagined, and Blake, submerged, searched anxiously for the brightness of Yang’s hair, for movement in the water. Finding no one, she swam upwards, breaking the surface with a gasp. A shadow filled the circle of the pool in an instant, blotting out the sun, turning the water slate-gray and near-impenetrable.

Blake looked up to see the Naga nearly spilling over the side of the pit, its hood outstretched, like a high ceiling, like a spread fan, decorated with that unsettling, rippling eye pattern. “The Long Night…” she mumbled.

The blood (Grimm didn’t really bleed, but it was hard to know what else to call it) from the pulsing wound of its eye dripped from the end of its nose, blackening the water beneath it. Yang broke the surface the next instant, gulping air, raking her hair back from her face, and Blake felt herself sigh and wonder what she’d been so worried about.

Yang whistled. “Whoa, look at that.”

But she wasn’t looking at the Naga when she said that. The raised pedestal revolved slowly in the water, counter-clockwise, clicking like an insect. The glass lenses folded one-by-one over the moonstone, the whole apparatus disappearing into a hidden compartment.

And then it sunk beneath the surface of the water again, down, down into the dark. Blake dove after it, saw the star-shaped notch before it fell quickly out of sight, felt terror fill her like lead when she realized what it meant.

She came up for air and swam over to Yang, grabbing her shoulder. “Stay here and keep an eye on that thing in case it tries to come down after us.”

Yang blinked. “And where the hell are _you_ going?”

“Hopefully to find us a way out of here.” Blake pointed down beneath them, at a floor not even Faunus eyes could quite see the shape of. “Almost all the stories about the Gates talk about _trials_ —tests to prove your worth.” Or, put another way, you had to choke back your fears, plunge down into darkness and claw your way back out of it.

“I know you said these were supposed to be gates to the realms to the Gods,” Yang said, “but I didn’t think you meant it so literally.” A small crease had formed between her eyes, like she felt troubled. Blake wondered if she knew it was there.

She squeezed Yang’s arm. “I’ll be right back.”

“If you’re not, I’m coming down there to fish you out,” Yang called.

Blake flashed a smirk over her shoulder, feeling strangely warmed by that promise as she waded out to the center of the well. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, the thrum of her heart, drew in the deepest breath her lungs would allow, and dove under.

There were tricks to holding your breath underwater, and most Kuo Kuanans knew them all by the time they could walk. There was the physical stuff—training your lungs, preserving your energy—but the most important thing was the mind. You had to keep yourself calm, had to remember yourself, fight the way your body wanted to fight you.

Deadlier than anything else was that splinter of fear in the mind. Blake kept her eyes locked forward as she went down into the shadowy deep of the well, one arm slicing through the water after the other.

In the Fang, back when she’d get into fairly regular scrapes with the Atlesian navy, there was one time off the coast of Northern Anima that she’d been washed overboard in a storm. The waves then had felt like giants curling their hands around her, trying to crush her, tear her apart. The surface of the water had seemed like it was a mile away from her—she only knew which way was up because of the flashes of lightning in the sky. Compared to that time, this was nothing. It was nothing. She repeated that to herself, held it close.

She could see the bottom now, the star-shaped groove in the stone. She reached in her pocket and found the God of Darkness. The edges of her vision were starting to turn colorless. There was an itch in her throat that she did her best to put out of her mind.

The statue fit cleanly into the groove, and Blake turned it counter-clockwise until she felt something click. Immediately, there was a sound like the distant rumble of thunder, the movement of mechanisms that were massive and ancient and unfathomable. Blake felt the pull of a current and saw grates open up in the base of the cavern—drainage. The water was draining from the well, steadily, like it would through a crack in a glass.

Blake realized too late that she couldn’t pull the statue out again, and the sudden twinge of remorse she felt over that hit her harder than she’d expected it to.

Ever since the day that the statue had first mysteriously appeared (a time when she was still living in Vacuo, still a child who knew next to nothing about the world), she’d been holding onto it without really knowing why. In some way, she hated it, hated the sight of it, hated what it reminded her of. In another way, it gave her a morbid kind of comfort.

She kicked off from the floor, leaving it behind, heading toward the surface. The pool was draining fast, but not fast enough. That ring of black around her vision constricted. Blake tried not to let herself think about the possibility that she hadn’t been careful enough, that of all things, it was her sentimentality that had cost her. That she would run out of air before she ever made it to the top.

The itch in her throat became a burn, became a bolt of panic through her entire body. She felt her body begin to thrash. Her chest felt like a room on fire, like smoke was gathering on the ceiling, looking for an exit. Her vision was nearly gone, but she could still make out a point of brightness, and she was rising closer to it—no, it was sinking toward her, getting bigger.

Something grabbed her, dragged her upwards (or maybe it was downwards now?), and a hand cupped the back of her head, brought her close. Somebody’s mouth pressed roughly to hers, and she felt air fill her lungs again, half of somebody else’s breath. Color came back into her eyes and all she saw was gold hair and her own hands, grasping, desperate, as they rose through the water and finally broke through to fresh air.

Blake gasped, dots bursting in her vision, her hands still clinging onto—well, it was Yang, she was sensible enough now to realize. Yang had come down after her, as promised. Blake knew she was probably gripping her tightly enough to bruise, but she couldn’t make herself let go while her chest convulsed, while everything was still cartwheeling around her.

Though if Blake was hurting her, Yang didn’t seem to care. “Gods, that was so fucking reckless.” Yang herself was steady, but maybe Blake wasn’t imagining the small, breathy waver in her laugh. “You really had to go and one-up me like that, huh?”

Blake felt like she was freezing, like Yang was the only warm thing. “Sorry…sorry,” she found herself mumbling in Yang’s ear over and over as she caught her breath. “I’ll be fine in a minute, I…”

“Hey,” Yang murmured, her hold loosening enough so that she could get Blake to look at her. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” That gentleness again, so counterintuitive, so unlike what she’d expected. So unlike what she knew. If it really wasn’t an act, some trick to make her drop her guard…Blake was starting to wonder if she’d gotten anything right about the mercenary to begin with.

And why did Blake almost believe her, in that moment when their eyes met? That she _was_ alright, there in the circle of Yang’s embrace, that she was harbored from everything—the Naga above them, the darkness beneath them?

That was dangerous. She pressed her palms flat against Yang’s collarbone. The things you fooled yourself into thinking of that way, as shelter, things that could save you, were the most dangerous. If you were drowning, you clung onto anything to live. It was as simple as that.

She withdrew from Yang’s warmth, finally coming to her senses. Yang seemed to take the hint, her arms falling as Blake slowly waded backwards. They were sinking faster, nearly to the bottom of the well. Blake risked a glance up at the Naga, which seemed so far away now, a blinding ring of light shining around its hood as it began to ebb from the entrance, losing interest now that it’d been thwarted. Blake wondered, faintly, where Ilia had run off to. Most likely, she’d gone to report all of it back to Adam. The thought of Ilia returning to him empty-handed, of his rage that erupted unpredictably and devoured anything in its radius, made her feel sick.

Blake’s boots touched the floor now and she looked down again, at her own faint, dark-eyed reflection in the shallow pool that was left when the vents closed again. She felt a chill down at the bottom where the sun couldn’t touch her, her clothes heavy and dripping.

Beneath the water, now ankle-height, the iridescence of the floor itself was suddenly visible, shapes illuminated in brightly colored tiles, worn with age but each made of carefully inlaid gemstone. She took a few steps backwards, taking in the entire intricate mosaic, breathing a small gasp of awe. A human form at the center, faceless, curling ram horns protruding from the head. From its long, raised arms emerged monstrous shapes in a circular pattern, serpents and bipedal wolves and spiny, long-tusked boars.

Yang wrung out her hair. Her clothes clung to her, defining the lines of muscle just as much as the places that looked soft, yielding. Blake was slow to recognize that she’d been staring for a beat too long and decided, sensibly, to chalk it up to her own oxygen-deprived brain cells and leave it at that.

“Grimm, huh,” Yang remarked, scratching her scalp. “And at the center…one of the Ancients?”

Blake turned to face her, cocking an eyebrow. “You don’t know the story? The Brother of Light created life on Remnant, and the younger brother, resenting his talent, created the Grimm, creatures that only knew destruction.”

“Right, but…” Yang looked vaguely uncomfortable, like she didn’t quite know how to say it. “Uh, well, I guess I’m just used to…different depictions of the Gods.”

Blake, suddenly realizing the reason for Yang’s confusion, gave a dry smile. She reached up, folding her cat ears with her thumbs. “Human depictions, you mean.”

Blushing faintly, Yang rubbed the back of her neck and shrugged. “Valian depictions, at least.”

Blake blinked. “I thought you were from Mistral?”

“Oh, I…” Pinned suddenly under Blake’s curious gaze, Yang seemed even more uncomfortable than before. “I was born in Vale. Well, Patch, actually. Just off the coast.”

“But you left?” Not that leaving home to lead a life of crime was exactly an unfamiliar concept to Blake. Though that didn’t stop her, careless as it was, from feeling a prickle of interest about Yang. From wondering if she had family apart from bandits. If she was close with them, missed them.

Yang’s expression, unexpectedly, stilled. “What’s with the sudden prying?” Her smile turned impish. She clicked her tongue, faux-sympathetic. “Not that I could blame you if you’d become a little infatuated. What with our passionate kiss back there and everything—”

Blake, her face growing hot, dug her elbow into Yang’s ribs.

“Shit, _ow_ , I was just—”

“Ugh, seriously.” Blake fumed. Obviously that didn’t count. Obviously. “How old are you?”

Yang held up her hands, looking like she was trying to make peace. “Sorry! Sorry. Just a bad joke.”

Blake’s hands lowered to her sides when she realized she’d been cleanly, a little embarrassingly, steered away from the subject of Yang’s past. Well, it was always the people who seemed so open who were like that. Somehow the least known of all, the ones who clung on more tightly than anybody to their vulnerable points.

And, naturally, Blake was guilty of that, too. Deflecting, keeping things to herself. (Some days she felt like she was half made of things she couldn’t talk about.) So why did it bother her so much? She knelt in the center of the floor, water rippling around her. “Um, back there…” Blake’s face felt warm, still. She touched the statue’s small, horned head with her fingertip. “Thanks.”

Yang crouched in front of her with a puzzled look. “For?”

“You know, for, uh…not just leaving me for dead. I guess.”

Yang snorted softly behind her hand. “Wow, you’re bad at this, huh?” Blake shot her an irritated scowl. She chuckled again, seeming to soften a bit. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. It’s just like you said, this isn’t a job for one person.”

Blake lifted her hand away. She guessed that was true, that there was no reason there had to be a deeper meaning than that. “It might not even be a job for two people.”

Yang clapped her on the shoulder, jarring her slightly. “That’s the spirit.” Her gaze landed on the silver statue between them. “Ah, don’t wanna leave Brother behind.”

“Wait—”

Yang jostled it, twisting the statue to the right, and it made a series of clicks, like the small, invisible gears of a wristwatch. The two of them both sprang back the next instant from a ripple of movement as the gemstone tiles turned over, each revealing a hidden underside. The well filled with the sounds of their snapping into place.

The gold was dazzling in the sunlight, the new images glimmering and distorting through shallow water. There was the bright, antlered figure of the God of Light now in the place of his brother—faceless, as well. Above him, an enormous bird surrounded by fire, with wings that stretched from one side of the well to the other. And beneath it all, filling the lower part of the circle, a jagged mountainside.

Blake stilled. “The Dragon’s Jaw.”

“So you recognize it,” Yang said, pacing a few steps backward to look at it. “Sounds…inviting.”

“Oh, it’s even more _inviting_ than the rest of this place,” Blake replied, dryly. She pointed, tracing the sharp peaks of the mural in the air. “They’re karst formations right in the middle of the mountains. Not very accessible, as you can imagine. Legend has it, they’re left over from the Gods. The God of Light, in draconic form, was struck by lightning, and the broken teeth that fell to earth became—” Blake paused, suddenly realizing she was being watched. Or, openly stared at, actually. “What?”

Yang’s eyes widened slightly, the intent look on her face slipping. “Oh, I—” She looked somehow startled by Blake’s question. “Sorry, I was listening, I was just…thinking it’s funny how you do that, light up whenever you start geeking out over Menagerian myths. It’s cute.”

“That’s…” _Cute_. Blake couldn’t help but think that nobody had called her that in a long time. She felt her pulse in her throat like a fluttering bird. “Okay, well, first of all, I don’t ‘geek out’ over it—”

“Right, right, don’t let me compromise your whole cool guy act. Please.” She gestured for Blake to go on. “As you were saying?”

Blake thought she might argue that point a bit more but realized that would probably be counterproductive. “As I was saying.” She pointed to the top of the circle, at the monstrous bird with talons as long as Blake’s arm, its blood-red beak agape, as if about to swallow the sun. “You thought the Naga was nasty? Well, I can promise you that the Garuda is _much_ worse. It’s a very old Grimm and, according to the stories, dangerously territorial. It’s guarded the Sun Gate for centuries, laying waste to countless warriors throughout history.”

“Territorial, huh.” Yang rubbed her wrist, her gaze distant. “You know, I’ve never heard of Grimm _protecting_ anything. Just destroying anything in their path. The ones here in Menagerie are…different from what I’m used to. Like they have minds.” 

“Well, you can thank mankind for that,” Blake said, surprised at the sudden, obvious bitterness that colored her tone. Maybe it was true that old grudges died hard, if they ever really did. “All the means the four kingdoms have to cull the Grimm—their huntsmen academies, their armies and barriers, their CCT Towers to relay distress calls? Menagerie’s never had any of that. Every year, the villages farther from the coast lose more and more territory to the Grimm. Meanwhile, the Grimm only live longer and become wiser, stronger. More dangerous. Just one more thing to prove that nobody in the kingdoms gives a damn about us.”

Blake paused, her anger running out of her in a rush. _Us_. How easily that had slipped from her mouth in the heat of the moment. How easily she’d forgotten the fact that she hadn’t been a Menagerian for most of her life. That her accent was Vacuan, her enemies Atlesian, most of her history scattered across Anima, her scars—unconsciously, two fingers fluttered to the raised line of flesh, just above the hipbone, that she could feel through the dampness of her shirt. Her scars, some of them, the deepest ones, she’d gotten one cold night in Vale.

Yang was silent. For a moment, Blake was worried she’d get angry back at her, get defensive, feel lectured. Or (and this might’ve been worse, actually, if only because it always rang so hollow) say something trite about her own open-mindedness. Blake had stomached both of those types plenty of times in the past.

But Yang didn’t do any of those things. She rubbed her jaw and nodded, watchful. Not like she was looking down on Blake, but like she was taking her in. Steeping in whatever new thought had come to her. “So there’s that side of you, too,” she said at last.

Blake, feeling a bit thrown, said, “If you’re about to call me ‘cute’ again, you’d better rethink it.”

Yang snorted. “Love to see anyone try their luck like that with you. Besides…” Those violet eyes felt like they would singe her if they lingered too long in one place. “I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking that it was nice to see you get mad.”

Blake looked away first. “I don’t think it is,” she said, quietly. “ _Nice_ , I mean. There was a time in my life when I felt it all the time. Furious. A time when I…when I surrounded myself with people who were just as angry. I burned myself up in that feeling and nothing changed.”

Yang seemed to consider this. “You know, the thing about fire…” she said, after a beat, stooping at the center of the well. “I think you were the one who was changed instead. Just like Brother, see?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Blake crouched down next to her looked. When Yang had turned it in the mechanism, the shape of it had changed. Like origami, turned inside out, folded into another form—a human form. So much for “glorified paperweight,” she thought, marveling at the intricate craftmanship. With her fingertip, Blake traced the head that stuck out above the surface of the pool, the decorated hood of the robe with its repeating eye pattern like the Naga’s, the head of the staff and the moon-shaped necklace. The glimmer of moonstones beneath the hood, the slit pattern in the stone faintly reminiscent of Bulan’s fabled cat eyes.

Yang’s comment bounced around in her head like a voice in a cavern, that Blake had changed. She’d even said it like it was a thing to be proud of.

Blake sat back on her heels, feeling a laugh of amazement escape her. “Well, hello there, Bulan.”

Yang’s eyebrows lifted eagerly. “I’d say we’re pretty good at this whole treasure hunting racket.”

“Are you referring to the part where I almost drowned, or the part where we were both almost Naga food?”

“Oh, come on.” She counted on her metal fingers. “We’ve got one giant monster down, one trial successfully…trialed, got a fancy souvenir for our trouble, and we even stumbled on a location for that second Gate.”

Blake stood, bracing a hand on her hip. “ _Again_ , we don’t know what these Gates have to do with Matahari’s ring. If anything. And more importantly right now, if you have any grand ideas about how we even get out of this fucking _pit_ , that’d be—”

Yang lifted the statue free from the notch with a soft _click_. The next instant, a section of the wall of the well, with a heavy scraping sound of moving stone, slid down, revealing a narrow carved passageway, the footpath slanting upwards. _Oh, come on_ , Blake almost said aloud. There was a limit to how much dumb luck a person could have—even someone like Yang.

Yang whistled. “The Ancients were pretty high-tech for their time, huh?” She tossed the statue back to Blake. “Good thing you thought to bring this thing along with you.”

“Yeah…” She turned it over in her hands, wondering, not for the first time, just how her father had come to be in possession of something like this. Why he had entrusted it only to Blake.

Yang glanced at her and winked. “Guess you’re lucky you hired a total professional, too.”

“Shut up,” Blake muttered, digging in her pack for a flashlight. “Let’s get moving. I want to make more progress toward the Heart and set up camp before dusk.”

“Aye, aye, chief.”

As they strayed into the darkness of the tunnel, Blake had to quash the sudden, insane urge to grab Yang’s hand, keep her close. Though whether she wanted to reassure or be reassured she couldn’t really say.

Blake curled her fingers into her palm and tossed the flashlight to Yang. “Keep up,” she said.


	4. Matahari and Bulan

“This story…sounds familiar.”

Blake, walking ahead, didn’t know what kind of face Yang was making when she said that, but her voice floated up to her indistinct, slow, like sleep-talking.

“You’ve heard it before?”

“No, I don’t think I have. It just sounds a little familiar.” For a moment, Blake could only hear the scrape of their boots on the carved steps of the passageway before Yang spoke up again. “Matahari and Bulan were…real people? Or just stories?”

“Myths,” Blake said. “So maybe they were both.”

“As long as the treasure’s real, I guess. Though it _would_ be kinda badass if there really was some legendary warrior-princess who challenged the _Gods_ like that.”

_Challenged the Gods_. The way the Menagerian elders told it, the way the heavy, old books told it, it was more like a cautionary tale. An affront, the highest transgression imaginable—but Matahari must’ve known that better than anyone. “A love so powerful you would defy gods for it. Throw away everything you were meant to uphold for it.” Blake watched the sweep of the flashlight beam, her own shadow slanting against the wall. “When I was a kid, I wondered what that must’ve felt like.”

“So you’ve always been a total romantic,” Yang said, teasingly.

Blake almost laughed, almost admitted to it, but for some reason those things dried up in her throat. Her fingertips grazed her hipbone. “I used to be.” For a moment, silence fell between them again.

“And, uh, Bulan was a shaman of some kind?” Yang asked, before Blake could regret saying it. “You said he was like a bridge between Faunus and the Gods.”

“Hence, ‘Bridgewalker.’ Once, they were the pillars of Menagerian culture. Knowledge-keepers and healers and advisors. Naturally, it was a role that demanded a lot of sacrifices, too.” She chewed her lip, wondering if she should go on. “I never said Bulan was a ‘he,’ though.”

Yang gave a theatrical gasp that made Blake roll her eyes. “Um? _Hold_ up, is Menagerie’s most famous legend an entire lesbian love story or what?”

Blake’s mouth twitched, almost into a smile. “Never said _that_ , either. And a lot of the texts on the Ancients do their best to scrub this out, but…” For some reason, she felt anxious, explaining it to Yang. She wasn’t sure why that was, or why the feel of Yang’s stare on her back in particular sent a prickle through her skin. “Anyway…it’s just another boring history lesson—”

“No, no, you’ve already got me invested,” Yang laughed, coming up closer behind Blake and bumping their shoulders together. The sudden warmth almost made her jump. “I wanna hear the rest of the lesson, professor.”

Blake peeked behind herself at Yang, who was watching her with curiosity. Nothing teasing in it—no, maybe there was a little of that, but there was something earnest there in her eyes, too.

“The Bridgewalkers,” she found herself saying, “are hard to describe. There are things the Old Language could express, or maybe things the Ancients didn’t even need to express, that the languages of the Kingdoms can’t. The way that they were spiritualists of the highest order, mediators of all boundaries—Faunus and gods, physical and ethereal, night and day…”

“So, Bulan,” Yang said, slowly. “Not a man, and not a woman, either.”

“Both, neither. Beyond. Multiple. Mortal and divine.” Blake smiled, half to herself. “In the original Ancient texts, written in the Old Language, the words used to describe them are ‘clean’ and ‘transformed.’”

“Clean and transformed,” Yang repeated, sounding impressed. “Bulan spoke to the Gods?”

“They served the Gods. A Bridgewalker was expected to serve their entire life, actually. They guarded the Gates, oversaw rituals in the palace, healed the sick. They were chosen when the Gods came to them in a dream.”

Yang scratched the back of her neck. “They didn’t have a choice? Sounds…heavy.”

Blake saw the light up ahead, fuzzy and pale yellow, the end of the passage. “Well, when you have a destiny, a duty to your people. Your culture. Then it doesn’t matter what kind of burdens you have to bear for it. That’s the theory, anyway.” Blake spared one last glance behind herself and saw something probing in Yang’s eyes. She turned away. “Anyway, there must’ve been something nice about it, don’t you think? Being clean and transformed. Perfect in the eyes of the Gods.”

“Bulan wasn’t perfect, though,” Yang said, which brought Blake up short right before the tunnel’s exit. Yang moved gently around her, tossing the flashlight back to her with a wink. “They fell in love with the princess and ended the world.”

~

_Matahari is born in the highest room of the palace, at sunrise. Little is known of the circumstances of Bulan’s birth, other than this: They are born by the light of the half-moon._

_The Gods speak to Bulan one night in a dream, marking them as a chosen servant of the divine. Years pass, and Bulan is sent to the royal palace to be a companion to the princess and to teach her all they know of rituals, the Gods, history, and magic. Matahari becomes enamored with Bulan’s passionate storytelling and steadfast devotion. In turn, Bulan comes to admire Matahari’s unrivaled strength and intelligence as well as her incredible compassion. The two learn much from each other. Before long, Bulan begins to visit the palace even when they have little left to teach Matahari; they return each day just to be near her. Like how the sun and the moon chase each other in the sky._

_But their love is ill-fated. The princess is not allowed to marry outside of the nobility, and the Bridgewalkers are forbidden from tainting themselves with mortal attachments. Bulan’s exact fate is lost to time. Some say they were executed by the royal guard. Others claim that the Gods themselves struck Bulan down for their transgression._

_But Matahari’s rage remains the one certainty. Using the magic she learned from Bulan, she turns it against the Gods, stealing away a fragment of their life-giving power. With this power, she commits a terrible taboo and raises Bulan from the dead._

_The lovers disappear together, never to be seen again. The furious Gods enact their wrath on Menagerie, cursing the land and revoking the magic they had given to the Faunus before departing from the mortal realm forever._

“And that’s the whole legend,” Blake said. “A version of it.”

Yang sat back, letting out a long breath, the low light of the fire flickering across her face. They’d made camp just a little before nightfall, taking shelter in a crumbling structure at the base of the mountain—a watchtower of some kind, if Blake had to guess. The reliefs of Ancients—soldiers, farmers, nobles, healers—were carved into the walls like a story in themselves, stone eyes unseeing in expressionless faces. Blake looked up at the spiraling stairs that led to nowhere, at the ceiling that was only the clear, black sky punctured through with stars. The watery shape of the moon shone down like a spotlight.

“You tell it well,” Yang said at last, regarding Blake with hooded eyes.

Blake shifted awkwardly on her perch. Gambol was across her lap, gleaming under its fresh polish. She sheathed it and set it aside. “Just telling it like I remember,” she said. She’d recited it just as her mother had told it to her those cold desert nights in Vacuo, Blake nestled deep in the quilt.

Yang leaned forward onto her elbows, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Isn’t that a happy ending, though? They both lived in the end. They were together.”

“I guess it would seem that way to some. But my—” This time, Blake stopped herself before she made that mistake again. _My people_. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “But Menagerians see it differently, as a story about sacrifices. Something of a tragedy, even. Matahari and Bulan chose each other, but in doing so they abandoned everything else. Their people, their community. The duties they were born to fulfill. They left all of it behind.”

Yang crossed one ankle over her leg, her expression sobering, drifting. “The bittersweet of exile,” she murmured.

Blake, feeling something bristle beneath her skin, retorted, “What would you know of it? Exile? Losing instead of taking?”

Snorting softly, Yang didn’t seem cowed by Blake’s harshness in the slightest. “Never thought I’d be lectured for _taking_ by a—remind me again where you learned that handy lockpicking trick of yours?” Though when Blake looked away and fell silent, Yang sighed, adding, “Anyway, we’ve all got our histories, don’t we? Even vicious, no-good bandits.”

It would be better if she just left it alone. That was the thought ringing in her head, that she should let Yang stay all vague and indifferent, shouldn’t step where the ice was thin if she didn’t know what was beneath. So maybe it just some flicker of defiance in her, or something unkind, that made her ask, “How does somebody from a place like Patch end up a mercenary on the other side of the world?”

Yang looked slightly startled, like she hadn’t been expecting Blake to ask that. Or, hadn’t expected her to ask it in that way, like it wasn’t an accusation but a real question. Her boot slipped from her knee, striking the ground. After a beat, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, how about this. I’ll tell you something about me, you tell me a little about you. Sounds fair, right?”

Blake felt her ears press against her head. “Sounds…”

Yang’s mouth twisted like she was trying to flatten a smile. Of course she failed in the end, though. “Wow, your face right now! Like you’d rather die than play along.” Chuckling softly, she jabbed a stick into the fire, sending up a spray of burning embers. “Tell it to me like you’re telling a story, then. Like it has nothing to do with you.”

No, that was just the problem with stories, Blake thought, almost said. They had everything to do with you. The one telling it, the one listening. The living, the dead. The yet-to-be-born.

But in the end, her curiosity got the better of her. “Fine,” she said, dropping one leg, leaning her chin on the other. “So you were born there. In Vale.”

“And you were born here, in Menagerie.” Yang stretched her arms above her head, peering through her fingers at the stars above them. “Though I don’t think our circumstances are as different as you may be thinking. You had your loneliness and I had mine, but we both had things we wanted to protect, places we could never go back to. Places we…probably wouldn’t even recognize anymore.”

Yang spoke low. Spoke in a way that made Blake feel like she could close her eyes and drift in it—not quite sleeping, but something that brushed close to it. Something yielding, like sand. She almost tricked herself into thinking she could say anything she wanted back to it.

“You had family there?” Blake asked.

“Yeah.” Yang pressed the back of her head to the wall of the tower, her eyes falling shut, her throat moving strangely. “I had a family there. My dad, my, uh…my younger sister. Ruby. Half-sister, technically. Her mom, our mom…she died when we were both small. I don’t think Ruby was even old enough to remember anything about her.”

Blake thought it made sense, somehow, Yang being a big sister to somebody. Blake hardly knew a thing about her, but it made sense. “You must’ve looked out for her a lot growing up.”

“I guess I did. In a way, we looked out for each other. She was a tough kid, always hopeful, bounced right back from any setback. I think I kind of depended on that.”

So they’d been close, Blake thought. Ruby was someone important to Yang. “You know, after I left Menagerie,” Blake said, “it was just me and my mom for a while. In Vacuo.” _Gods_ , how she’d hated Vacuo. Everywhere you went, just this endless, lonely void. “Dad sent some things along at first, but after a few weeks, there was nothing. Sometimes I try to picture his face, and I…” Blake cleared her throat. Yang wasn’t looking at her, but she’d gone silent in a way that felt like she was listening to her intently, her head slightly turned to the side. “Anyway, it wasn’t long before I got wrapped up in the Fang, in their cause, and left home. I left a note. I was too much of a coward to tell her myself.”

“I left, too,” Yang said, exhaling a long breath. “My dad tried to stop me, tell me I was making a mistake, but my mind was made up. I think I was…tired of feeling like a burden.”

Blake’s ears twitched. “Something happened.”

“As my uncle would say, something always happens. The moment you forget it can.” A lull settled between them. The only sounds for a long time were the lonely calls of nocturnal animals, the crack and pop of campfire, the soft, nervous tap of the heel of Yang’s boot on the stone floor. Then: “I was thirteen.” She held up her right arm, flexing mechanical fingers, bright metal reflecting firelight. “When this happened. Ruby was eleven.”

Blake sat up, feeling as if somebody had doused her with cold water. “Wait, you were just a kid?”

Yang cracked an eye, flashing a humorless grin. “You were thinking this injury was some kind of battle scar?” Blake flushed and looked down. She had to admit she’d been imagining something close, that Yang had gotten it when she was part of the Tribe, in the heat of combat. Yang slowly lowered her arm. “Well, it’s not like I’d jump to correct anybody, though. Better for my image than the truth, at least—that I was just some stupid kid who tried to go toe to toe with an Ursa Major. Who wanted to protect somebody but couldn’t even protect herself.”

Ursa Major. Blake had never encountered one herself, but from what she’d heard, it was ten times stronger than ordinary Ursai. At least twice as large. More aggressive. Slower than other Grimm, but that bristling armor was thick, next to impenetrable. It was probably a miracle Yang hadn’t lost more than an arm. “Your sister, you mean,” Blake said, her gaze flicking up to meet Yang’s. “You were trying to protect her.”

The expression in Yang’s eyes seemed to withdraw just a little bit, like the tide going out at dusk. Like she was slowly starting to realize how much of her costume she was letting slip. Too much hurt wrapped up in it to be just another campfire story—that was how it seemed to Blake. That Ruby was someone who was still precious to her, that leaving her had locked away part of Yang’s heart somewhere. Yang’s throat moved again. “Well, we would’ve both been dead, anyway, if it wasn’t for my Uncle Qrow. He’s always had a way of showing up at the right moments. Or, I guess you’d call them the wrong ones.”

“And…Raven?” Blake asked, before she could stop herself.

Yang flinched like she’d been slapped. “What about her?” she asked, her voice tense.

“How does she factor into this story?”

“She didn’t,” Yang replied, shortly. “Not for a long time, at least. She ditched me with my dad a short time after I was born. But I guess she had a change of heart.” The way Yang’s mouth thinned when she said that made Blake think she didn’t really believe it. “I was fifteen when she showed up in Patch out of the blue. She offered to train me, make me stronger. Give me purpose. Of course, that came with the condition that I’d go back with her to Mistral.”

Blake chewed the inside of her lip. “So you went with her.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an accusation, either, and Yang seemed to quietly store the recognition of that away. Because Blake _got_ it, probably more than most people could ever understand. The deals with devils that you made with what you thought were good intentions.

And maybe you really did have good intentions. But you also grabbed onto anything you could to drag yourself out of the mud. If it was to shed that lonely, helpless, furious feeling that could only burn you up inside, you would reach out for anything.

“Adam…” Blake began, because she could sense Yang wanting to ask about him. Her tongue felt heavy, but for some reason, she wanted Yang to know. “When I met him, I was around that same age. Fifteen. He was six years older. He seemed smart. Passionate. Like nobody I’d ever met, and saying all the things he knew someone like me would want to hear. He was my…mentor. For a while. Before he expected something else—something I thought I wanted, too.”

Yang seemed to understand what Blake meant, sitting forward, her eyes hardening.

“Wherever he went, I followed. With him, I saw all the dangers and the cruelties the Kingdoms had to offer. I did some things I’m proud of, and some things I’m not. But all the while, I was making excuses for what was right under my nose. The way ‘accidents’—bloodshed, people dying—became ‘self-defense,’ the way ‘self-defense’ became ‘ _necessary_.’”

“He sounds like a real manipulative bastard.” Yang wasn’t being flippant when she said that. She’d said it something like a snarl, like she regretted not taking the shot back in Kuo Kuana. “Using his suffering to justify the suffering he sends back out.”

“And I let him do it. Every time I worked up the nerve to question him, he’d get so _furious_ with me. Tell me my resolve wasn’t strong enough. He always made a point to remind me that I came from everything, a royal bloodline, and he came from nothing. That he’d survived because he was strong, and that I’d survived because of him.”

“Seems to me like you survived in _spite_ of him.” Blake tried not to wince, tried not to wonder if Yang had any idea of just how close to the truth she was. Yang folded her arms. “And no one really comes from nothing.”

“You’re right. What Adam came from was worse than nothing. The Dust mines in the shadow of Atlas. Plenty of Faunus never make it out of there alive.” Even now, she felt something almost like sympathy rise up like a knot in her throat. Something almost like it, but by now so mutilated beyond its shape it was impossible to really feel it. “That’s how Ilia got tangled up in the Fang, too. Her parents were killed after an explosion caused a cave-in. An avoidable accident, but…obviously, the Schnee Dust Company hasn’t ever really cared enough to prevent things like that. She left Mantle and eventually landed in Northern Anima.”

“You were close,” Yang said. “You and her.”

Blake stared at her hands, remembering the way Ilia had looked at her back in the clearing. As if Blake herself had become unrecognizable. “Did it really seem that way?”

Yang shrugged. “Seemed like there was a history there.”

“A history…” Blake sighed. “We were close. There were times it felt like we were…even closer than friends.” Nothing had happened between them, exactly. But it was hard to deny that there was something that might’ve come of it, if Blake had stayed. If human ears could prick up as Blake’s could, she imagined Yang’s would’ve in that moment as her head lifted wordlessly.

Blake went on, feeling the hard thump of her heart, “Then again, maybe I was just fooling myself. We were in Vale when I left the Fang. It was just supposed to be another transport hit for us. A train passing through the mountains. Get in, blow up a few crates of Dust, and get out. But Adam’s plan was dangerous. He would’ve blown up the crew members along with the cargo. So…I sabotaged the charges the night before the ambush and packed a bag. I _begged_ Ilia to come with me, but she refused. Called me a traitor. So I left on my own.”

Blake’s hand fluttered to her abdomen. She wanted to tell the rest of it, how Adam had caught her sneaking out, had drawn his sword on her. Blake wanted to tell her how it felt, knowing that he would’ve sooner killed her before he let her go. She’d said so much to Yang already, but for some reason, it stuck in her throat now. Those words wouldn’t come.

“Pretty gutsy,” Yang said, drawing a bewildered look from Blake. Yang scratched her chin. “Uh, leaving like you did. Doing what you knew was right. It couldn’t have been easy at all.”

Blake watched her for a moment, the way she uncrossed her arms under Blake’s gaze, almost self-consciously. The way she said all of those things earnestly, full of understanding, and gazed back at her that same way. Blake wondered if it had to be Yang, or if she could’ve said it to anybody. If she’d just been waiting for the excuse to do it, unload all that baggage on somebody, or if Yang had drawn it out of her without her even realizing it.

“I wouldn’t call it gutsy,” she finally replied. “It was more like…a breaking point.”

“Some people come to that point over and over again and never do anything about it,” Yang pointed out, unexpectedly wise. She bent to retrieve her pack from the space behind her, rolling out a blanket across the hard floor. “Though now it looks like you’ve thrown yourself back into the lions’ den.”

Blake felt some barely perceptible shift in the mood, something sliding back into the distance they’d had between them before (though this kind of distance was less untrusting, verging on the too-comfortable). They were just two strangers telling stories in the dark. That was the truth of it. Blake tried not to let her disappointment show on her face. She’d been wanting to ask Yang more, ask her if she’d ever returned home. If she’d ever seen her family again after that. Some part of her wondered if she’d even get the chance to ask after the night ended.

When the sun rose, whatever this was—this strange, confessional feeling between them, slightly surreal—would probably steal away with it. Like condensation from leaves, vaporized in the jungle heat.

“I guess I have…” she murmured.

“Can I ask you one last thing?”

Blake leaned back on the palms of her hands. “Not really fair.”

Yang laughed. “I guess it’s not. You don’t have to answer.” Yang settled onto the blanket, propping her head up in one hand. “What do you like about it? That story?”

Blake blinked slowly, trying and failing to read Yang’s intent. “The story of Matahari and Bulan?” Yang nodded. “I wouldn’t say that I like it, just…”

Yang fell back into the crook of her arm, staring up at the sky. Dying firelight lit her profile faintly in orange. Blake wondered how much of her face Yang could see in return. “You must like it,” she said. “To tell it like that.” When Blake didn’t reply, she scrunched her nose, added, “Do you think Bulan _wanted_ to leave everything behind? Do you think they had a choice after Matahari brought them back to life?”

“I think Bulan made their choice long before then,” Blake murmured. “The day they returned to the palace just to see Matahari’s face. I think by then…it was already too late.”

Not inevitable, not destiny. Not two people moved by forces outside of themselves, the sun and moon chasing each other across the sky for eternity. It was only choices, one after the other. Promises like a woven wreath.

Yang hummed, low in her throat. “I knew you were a romantic,” she whispered back, closing her eyes.


	5. Ascension

The Dragon’s Jaw would be easy to spot once you came to it—if you happened to survive the hard trek up the mountainside. Sure, the formations themselves were closer to the base, but it was still quite a climb on foot. A matter of navigating the steep series of steps and footpaths carved into the rock. Obviously there were Grimm to worry about, too. Mostly the Garuda. The Naga had been an unwelcome surprise, daunting enough on its own, so that was why they had to be more careful this time around when approaching the Sun Gate. Or at least slightly less of an easy target.

And then there was the Fang. It was hard to say where they’d been looking all this time, or how far into the Heart they’d really gotten, but running into any of them now would only draw unwanted attention.

Blake gestured to the mountain range on the faded map she’d smoothed out between them, though she could feel Yang’s gaze lingering on her face, falling away, returning more intently. She sighed and turned sharply toward her. “Could you focus, please?”

Yang nodded, dutifully, a bit blearily. The sun wouldn’t be up for another few hours, and color hadn’t quite soaked into the landscape. “I was listening. Mostly.”

“You’ve been looking at me with that weird expression.”

Yang’s eyebrows lifted, color blooming faintly across her cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was. I guess my mind was on something else.”

“Well, could you cut it out? If I’d known you’d be so awkward about it, I wouldn’t have…” Blake folded the map and shoved it back into her pack. “You’re acting like we had a one night stand or something.” Now it was Blake’s turn to blush, her mouth snapping shut. Yang, for her part, looked stunned and, frankly, delighted. Asshole. Blake started off on the path. Something was wrong with her. Yang had seriously gotten in her head. “Forget I said that.”

“ _Wow_ , no-nonsense Blake Belladonna beating me to an inappropriate comment,” Yang crowed, jogging to catch up to her, slinging her pack over one shoulder. “The world must be ending again.”

Blake wished, half-seriously, the Gods would reappear and strike her down like they did Bulan. She’d been expecting this, this embarrassment around each other when they got up in the morning and properly digested the unexpected confessions of last night—the looks that’d passed between them, so weighted it was like being touched with fingertips, the secret-telling, even the secrets that were dangerous to tell. But it still rattled her, just how stripped-down she felt in the half-light of the morning. “Anyway, like I said. Stay focused. The Sun Gate won’t wait for us if we miss our window.”

“I _still_ don’t know why we have to leave this early, but…” Yang gave a lazy salute (and a yawn). “You’re the boss.”

They’d been at it a few hours, slowly ascending the mountain—Yang busy complaining about how the MREs “weren’t filling at all” as she punched holes through Grimm that sprung out of the brush—when Blake’s ears twitched, swiveled backwards. She knelt, pressed her palm flat to the earth. Rumbling. Like machines. Approaching from where they’d just come on the mountain path.

She stood, Yang shooting her a curious look as she dragged her arm, pulling them off the path and into the thick cover of the forest. She pressed them into the shadows, realizing a moment late that Blake had backed Yang against the hollow of a tree, palms flat on either side of her. So close together her own body warmed, so close she felt static electricity in all the places they nearly touched. Yang was still, like she was holding her breath. It took all of Blake’s concentration not to look up at her, not to move away, not to move closer.

The rumbling sound was more distinct now, close enough that Yang could seem to hear them approaching, too. Blake heard voices calling to each other.

Yang slid out from under Blake, sticking close to the tree and peering through the gaps in the undergrowth, but Blake grabbed her arm. “We can’t be seen.”

Yang’s gauntlet expanded with a _snap_. “I don’t know exactly what you’re hearing right now,” she said, “but to me, it sounds like a faster way up this mountain.”

She should stop her, Blake thought. It was a reckless idea. _Extremely_ reckless. Then again…when had their methods ever been traditional? (And it wasn’t like Yang’s way didn’t get results.) Blake felt her hand slip from Yang’s arm. She unsheathed Gambol from her back. “Let’s make this quick.”

Yang smirked, cracking her neck. “Between the two of us? They won’t even know what hit ‘em.”

Blake crouched, listening closely as they roared up the path, cocking her head to one side. Motorbikes, it sounded like. Two of them. White Fang scouts, if she had to guess—typically young, expendable. At least to Adam. She counted down the seconds in her head. Five, four, three…

The bikes shot out of the trees, thunderous. As she’d thought, it looked like two Fang scouts, the one ahead shouting something over her shoulder. Blake collapsed the blade of her sword, quietly taking aim. Gambol’s edge burrowed deep in the tree on the other side of the path, and she yanked, the ribbon snapping tight like a clothesline.

The scout’s body folded like a jackknife, the bike shooting out from under her. At the same time, Yang stepped out of cover and fired off an explosive round into the path just ahead of the second scout, which made him lose control of the motorcycle and take a rough tumble across the rocks, sliding to a stop at Yang’s feet.

Yang nudged him over—a low groan escaping him as she did, so at least he’d survived the wipeout. She tutted sympathetically. “Ooh, really shoulda worn a helmet, buddy.”

Blake dislodged Gambol from the tree with a grunt. “At least _try_ to—”

Her expression suddenly changing, Yang pivoted and fired, the shot zipping right past Blake, the Fang scout behind her crying out.

Blake turned to find the girl snarling on the ground and holding her hand, the gun she’d drawn shattered and useless beside her. Her mask had been knocked off her face in the fall. Not that Blake would even recognize her, somebody that young.

“…‘Stay focused?’” Yang finished, resting one hand on her hip.

Blake frowned. “Right. Thanks.”

The scout dragged herself to her feet unsteadily, speaking indistinctly at first. She raised her head. “You…I know about you,” she spat, pulling a knife from her belt. “Once one of _us_.” Her gaze flickered to Yang and back. “Nothing but a traitor now.”

Blake stared back. So much rage there, in those eyes. So much of an old feeling she recognized. She raised her sword. “Then you should know better than to try and put up a fight.”

It was over in a moment, Blake, quick and fluid as a shadow, side-stepping her attack and knocking her out cold with the hilt of Gambol Shroud. It wouldn’t have made a difference, she thought. If the girl had run or stood her ground. Adam wouldn’t have heard about it either way.

They dragged the unconscious scouts over to the side of the path, patting them down for supplies. Yang whistled, tossing Blake an ammo cartridge. “Ice Dust,” she said. “Could come in handy.” Blake kind of doubted it, but she pocketed the cartridge anyway.

Yang propped one of the bikes upright, dusting off the seat. “You do know how to ride one of these, right?”

A beat too slow, Blake sheathed her sword, clearing her throat. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a fast learner.”

That drew an abrupt laugh from Yang. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” And sure, there wasn’t anything particularly lascivious about how she’d _said_ it, but for a moment her gaze seemed to rest on Blake just a little too keenly. Yang shook her head, throwing her leg over the seat and patting the space behind her. “But there’s no use taking unnecessary risks, right?”

That wasn’t fair. Using something she would say against her. “So now I’m a liability?” Blake huffed, though she had to admit it wasn’t like she’d been too thrilled to try her luck over the rocky terrain, anyway. She straddled the seat just behind Yang, her knees pressing against Yang’s hips.

“You’re not gonna hold on?” Yang’s head was half-turned to her.

“I’ve got handgrips back here.”

“Oh. Right. I just figured you’d, uh…” Yang turned back, scratching her head. “Never mind.”

Gods, there it was again, that impulse—not exactly… _toying_ , but she couldn’t call it totally benign, either. There was just something about that uncharacteristic embarrassment that made Blake let go of the handles, that made her lean forward, wrap her arms carefully around Yang’s waist.

“Unless,” she murmured, close to Yang’s ear, “you think this way is…safer?”

It was only because Blake was holding onto her that she felt it, the small shiver that ran up the mercenary’s spine. “Yeah,” Yang said, her voice nearly drowned out as the motorcycle roared to life beneath them. “Definitely safer.”

~

They were just flashes of color at first. So quick Blake thought she was imagining them. Streaks of red like accidental paint splatter on a canvas. But as the gray morning brightened, as they flew farther up the mountain path, Blake began to notice them more and more.

“Love-lies-bleeding,” she mumbled.

Yang tossed her head back, yelling to be heard. “What was that?”

“Stop for a second,” Blake called.

The bike slowed and came to a halt, dirt crunching under the tires. Yang put her boot down and twisted to look at her as Blake sat back in the seat. “Something catch your eye?”

Blake gestured along the path, pointing up to the place where the path diverged, became darker, the vegetation denser. “Amaranth. Around here, they call it love-lies-bleeding. That kinda morbid-looking red flower that hangs down like that? We should follow it.”

Yang raked her hair back from her face. “Are we sightseeing or are you thinking of another story?”

“I’m thinking of Matahari,” Blake said, irritably brushing gold curls out of her eyes. “The night she learned Bulan was to be executed, she ran from the palace, wandering the mountains in a grief-stricken daze. Wherever her tears fell to earth, amaranth bloomed. Symbolizing her love for Bulan that would never die or fade.”

Yang rubbed her chin. “I can respect the melodrama, honestly. You’re thinking that if it has to do with Matahari, the Sun Gate’s at the end of it?”

“Can’t hurt to try. There are a lot of paths running up the mountain. Either the Ancients memorized them all by heart, or they had their ways of knowing.” Blake’s arm circled Yang’s waist again. “Besides, have I led us astray yet?”

“Somebody’s getting cocky.” Yang smirked at her, revving the bike. “Not that I’m complaining.”

And they went on that way for a while, almost unspeaking, Blake pointing out the brightness of flowers, deviating paths, leading them into the deeper shadows of the jungle, where the way up narrowed and grew steeper. It was a slightly sticky feeling, clinging to Yang (whose temperature seemed to naturally run high) in the jungle humidity, but it wasn’t an altogether uncomfortable feeling, either.

The sun had risen already, settling low, spilling like honey through the breaks between the leaves. Blake leaned back. It looked almost cloudless today. At least now they had good timing on their side. She just hoped she didn’t jinx that by thinking it. History told her that good feelings about things were usually just a matter of missing the signs. Blake remembered the tap of Yang’s foot, the way she’d murmured, her head pressed back against the tower, _Something always happens. The moment you forget it can_.

But after a bit longer, Blake blinked and peered over Yang’s shoulder, spotting the end of the path like a mirage, just when she’d started to wonder if there was one. A gray clearing, straight ahead of them. The vision of the field, fog suspended above the grass and the sharp jut of the rocks, rose to meet them, almost familiar. They burst out of the forest and stopped near the edge of the jungle, mist clinging to them, and Blake felt it right away—even before she saw them. That same feeling from before, the strange, sacred energy that hummed straight through her. Blake didn’t know if it was luck or knowing or something stronger that drew them to these places. She wondered if Yang would understand what she meant.

Quiet awe settled into her as she looked up and up the length of thin, tall, sharp-looking stones, countless in the haze. Serrated like animal teeth. Or…the way the stone was creased as if with folds, they looked like towering figures, giants hidden under sheets.

Yang cut the engine, her neck craning, as well. “Damn. A mural is one thing, but seeing it for real…” She looked over her shoulder at Blake. “Nice of Matahari to tell us the way to the Dragon’s Jaw, don’t you think?”

If the Fang was anywhere close, they probably wouldn’t even know it (not that the Gates would even do them any good without the relics). Adam was impatient, cut corners. He had always scoffed at the idea, knowing any history that didn’t involve some kind of conquest. Any stories that didn’t end exactly as you expected them to.

Blake slid off the bike, glancing around. “Don’t look so thrilled just yet. You never know when the Garuda might just decide to come down the mountain for a visit.”

“Ever the voice of…super ominous reason.” Yang started wandering into the waist-high fog, toward the middle of the clearing, stretching her arms above her head.

Blake followed. “Do you really think they’re telling us the way?” The question slipped from her mouth before she knew she was asking it. “Matahari. The Ancients.”

Yang stopped for a moment, her arms lowering. It was hard to tell if she wasn’t understanding or if she was just caught off-guard by it. When she turned, her eyes lifting to Blake’s, the expression in them seemed to waver, like something slowly rising to the surface of dark water—sinking down again before it could fully take shape. Finally, she said, with a loose grin, “Wouldn’t have pegged you as the spiritual type.”

Blake sighed and brushed past her. “No, forget it.” Why did she feel so disappointed by that answer? It was strange. Uncomfortable, like an itch, or an unplaceable ache. After a moment, she heard the swish of the wet grass as Yang trailed behind.

The formations certainly looked different up close. A little like the Moon Gate had been—a natural part of the landscape at first glance, but, when you looked closer, you discovered the ways it had been shaped by the Ancients’ hands. The karst had been here long before Faunus-kind, obviously, but all along the length of the stones were weathered, intricate relief carvings. Stories, Blake realized, running her fingertips along the grooves. At the bottom, the origin, and the narrative flowed in images, each bleeding into the next, until it reached the top—until the story ended in, as they often did, triumph or tragedy. It must’ve been dangerous, she imagined, climbing so high to carve them.

Yang’s hand drifted above hers, touching the relief, tracing the faces of figures climbing out of rivers, out of lotus flowers, out of enormous eggshells, out of darkness. That was how most of the hero myths started in Menagerie. An emergence, a rising out of the void. Yang’s fingers almost brushed across the back of Blake’s hand when she lifted them away.

Blake’s gaze darted all around it. If she could commit it all to memory, every shape, every character, she would. Of course, they couldn’t stay here long, but she found herself lingering a moment. “Places like these are how we know anything about the Ancients today. Some things were written out in official records, kept in underground libraries, but some of it was like this.” She stepped back. Bridgewalkers were both story-keepers and guardians of the realms of the Gods. She bet the Sun Gate had been carved by them. “If those records are whispers across the centuries, carvings like these are…like shouting from a mountaintop.”

Yang passed the first ring of stones, peering into the maze-like darkness. She half-turned and rapped her knuckles against the karst “I like their style.”

It was colder between the formations, deep in the places where the sun couldn’t quite reach. Colder, and the rocks were sometimes so close together she felt like she could suffocate between them. The moss that grew on them was slick beneath her palms. When she looked back at Yang, she could see Yang slowly letting out a breath through her teeth as she squeezed through an especially narrow passageway.

“If we get stuck in here,” Yang muttered, “sorry to the Ancients, but I’m punching a hole straight through these.”

“Wow, so eager to see the Garuda up close and personal, huh,” Blake muttered back, elbowing her in the side. “Quit complaining. We’re almost to the middle of it.”

Though she had to admit Yang had a point. Even when the way through grew wider, the chill of the stone still seeped into her skin. Everywhere she looked was a stifling slate-gray, strange forms appearing out of the dimness—the life-like folds of the stone, the carvings of demons and heroes, animals, landscapes, gods that looked like monsters, monsters that looked like gods. Again, the audience of unseeing eyes. (Or maybe they were watching them, after all? Deliberating silently on their worth?)

The space broadened at last into a nearly perfect circular shape, and what had to be the tallest formation of them all was firmly at the center of it, ringed in mist. To think that this had to be a place where Faunus had once communed with gods, Blake thought, strangely disquieted by the realization. But then her gaze landed on the small carvings of wings, the image of a tower framed by sunrise, and she felt a small sigh of relief escape her.

“The elusive Princess Matahari herself!” Yang announced, before even Blake could utter it. She brushed the lowest part of it, half-obscured by moss, with her palm. “And here…the highest room of the palace, it looks like.”

“Trying to impress me?” Blake asked, with a small smile that Yang, looking more than a little pleased with herself, returned. “Still, I wonder why the story begins at the bottom. Why didn’t the Ancients carve it so it would begin at the top, so it would read like writing?”

Yang shrugged, jamming her hands in her pockets and leaning back to look at it, so far back it almost seemed like she would fall backwards. “Maybe the person who carved it started at the bottom. Told the story to themselves as they made their way up.”

“Told it to themselves, huh…” Blake’s gaze wandered up to the next part of the story, Matahari’s prophetic dream as a child. It was a dream about a great tree, dying. At the time, few had known how to interpret it. It was only later that its meaning became painfully clear: The tree was Matahari’s legacy, was the legacy of the Ancients’ entire civilization, and it died just as the Ancients, themselves, were fated to vanish from the world.

The relief of the tree was just within reach, its center sunken in. Yang hummed. “Some of the indents here looks purposeful,” she said, reaching up toward it. “Like the sculptors carved them to hold onto as they climbed.”

_Unlikely_ , Blake thought. _They’d probably used some sort of harness to scale it_. But then Yang’s hand curled into the hollow of the relief and Blake heard a scraping sound. Suspiciously like a lever. Yang released it and turned to her, her eyebrows lifting high.

Of course. Night and day, water and stone, descending… “This is the Sun Gate’s trial,” Blake said, nerves singing in her blood as she catalogued the height of it again. “Someone has to climb it. The last trial was a plunge into darkness. This one is…an ascension. Climbing out of the dark, into the light.” No cheating, either, it looked like. You had to take it one groove at a time, activating each lever.

The words had barely fallen out of Blake’s mouth before Yang was tying up her hair again, eyeing the spaces between each hold. “Well, no time to waste, right?” she said, loudly popping her neck.

Blake grabbed her shoulder. “You can’t seriously be thinking—”

“What, like you weren’t about to volunteer?” Yang asked, shrugging her off. It was hard to argue with that. It was impossible to argue, actually. What was worse, Yang seemed to have already made up her mind. “You can spot me.”

“If you fall, you can sort that out yourself,” Blake muttered, drawing a smirk from Yang. Worrying the inside of her lip, she pulled the God of Light from her rucksack and pressed it into Yang’s hand—which she held lightly between both of her own for what was probably a moment too long. And her voice, probably just a little too… _something_ (or: verging on some kind of admission, not softness but not its opposite, either) when she said, “Wouldn’t wanna leave without this.”

Yang tossed it in her hand before pocketing it. “Thanks.” She turned back to the mural, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out again through her mouth. She seemed to be trying to resist the temptation to look up again, focusing on only the part of it that was directly in front of her. Though, as if there was a limit to her concentration, when she lifted herself up by the first few grooves, she threw a wink over her shoulder at Blake. “Cover my six down there, won’t you?”

Blake clicked her tongue and spun around. Now that was _really_ unfair. “You’re losing focus already.”

“Help keep me focused, then. Tell me about this part.” Yang, who had climbed higher, gestured to place above the tree. “Looks like…” She grunted, readjusting her grip. “Oh, sick, she has a sword. And she’s on a mountain or something. The one we’re on right now, you think?”

“A different one,” Blake said, automatically, her eyes tracing the meandering shapes within the relief, the small, curved sword with its intricate handle that she raised high above her head. “This one’s called Garuda’s Mountain.”

“Naturally. Thanks for the reminder.”

“But the one in the mural is probably…Wanderer’s Mountain. At the end of Matahari’s training as a warrior, her master sent her there. Alone. The mountain was known to the Ancients as a place where the jungle was so dense, almost no one who had walked into it had managed to find their way out again. Matahari was given a single task: return to the palace with a Sabyr fang.”

“This master of hers sounds like a dick,” Yang said, her voice growing fainter as she scaled even higher. “That’s literally impossible.”

And it should’ve been, since any Grimm would disintegrate immediately when it died. “Matahari was known for her strength, but many underestimated her intelligence,” Blake said, casting her voice louder as Yang’s bright form on the wall became smaller. “The legend goes, she dragged a Sabyr by its back claw, alive, all the way back to the palace. And she killed it there in one blow, throwing its body right at the feet of her master.”

Yang barked out a laugh, nearly losing her grip. “Gods, she’s so fucking cool.”

As Yang climbed, Blake told her the story as she touched it, piece by piece. Maybe there was a point where Yang climbed too high to hear her, but Blake called out to her anyway, told her all about Matahari predicting storms, ending feuds between rival clans, learning powerful magic, falling in love. Bulan made appearances first at the fringes of scenes, an actor waiting in the wings, but eventually emerged center-stage when the story of Menagerie’s curse reached its crescendo. The very top of it was too high and too faint for even Faunus eyes to interpret, though.

A distant figure now, Yang steadily was making her way toward the end, though Blake could still, distantly, make out the sheen of sweat on the nape of her neck, her arms. The shiver of her muscles as she pulled herself up. Blake wondered if her arm hurt, the place where flesh met metal, if it hurt from straining it like that—hurt in the way that Blake’s scar sometimes did. Real, not imagined, but also, somehow, like the memory of the feeling at the same time.

“Blake!”

She snapped out of the thought, realizing she hadn’t even noticed it, the moment Yang had finally reached the towering pinnacle of the Gate. She sat on the ledge, legs dangling as she leaned onto her elbows, breathing hard.

When their eyes seemed to meet, Blake pacing a few steps backwards to see all the way to the top, Yang gave her a shaky thumbs up. Blake couldn’t help but think that, even exhausted, Yang looked like a work of art herself, like she belonged up there on top of the karst. The sun, rising almost above the trees now, poured around her silhouette, turning the edges of her gold. As if she was a relief of Matahari made flesh. There was no way Yang would ever know this, or ever had to know, but Blake felt her breath catch softly in her throat when she lifted her gaze to that.

“What now?” Yang called, pulling at the collar of her shirt.

“Look for a mechanism!” Blake called back to her. “A star shape, maybe. Something where the statue can fit into the groove, like last time.”

“Ah…” Yang scooted off of the ledge, half-hanging off of it. “I was sitting on it!”

Blake was already looking so far up—it was hard to roll her eyes any higher. “You really know how to kill a moment, don’t you?” she muttered. Though maybe it was Blake’s own fault for letting her mind wander over Yang like that again, over the sight of her, the way she sometimes seemed like the only bright thing, and other times seemed like she was refracting the light in all kinds of directions like a diamond. Blake wondered if it was even possible _not_ to be so…so distracted by that.

Yang twisted the statue into the groove and twisted it back, going still, as if quietly reverent, watching the transformation for herself this time. When she lifted it again from the indent, she paused again like she was expecting something else to happen. Another map. An inscription. A voice from the stone. Nothing like that seemed to appear, though.

She held it above her head, shrugging, the gold flashing in the light. Blake could see wings extending from the back, as if about to take flight. “Looks like we’ve got a matching set now, at least. No more hints, though!” If Blake wasn’t at a distance, she could’ve sworn Yang was up there pouting. “Stingy!”

“Nice work. Now will you hurry the fuck back down already?” Blake yelled up to her. She swung Gambol Shroud, the collapsed sword hooking over the stone. Blake climbed up some of the way, tugging the ribbon to test its secureness. Yang pocketed the statue, grumbling something under her breath as she began to rappel down.

Blake hopped back down and scanned the skies. Still no sign of the Garuda. She didn’t know if that was strange or not, its absence, the lack of its shadow in the sky. The Naga might’ve only been a stroke of bad luck—the Gates, no longer tethering the earthly and unearthly, no longer housing gods, not even worth the trouble to protect anymore. Maybe the Garuda was purely a myth in the end, or extinct, an old tale to discourage the weak-willed. After all, no one had seen it or anything like it in for centuries, not in the flesh. Supposedly, there was some great nest on the mountain peak. No one had ever been brave enough to find it, though. Or had even really cared to launch an expedition into the Heart until stories about Matahari’s ring and the riches of the forgotten palace had resurfaced.

Yang jumped down the rest of the way when she ran out of ribbon, swinging Gambol along with her, tucking fluidly into a roll when she hit the ground. Springing back up to her feet, suddenly she was standing too close, too tall, too much in Blake’s space. For a single, stunned moment, their gazes met and it was like flint striking, like it would be the most natural thing in the world if Yang leaned just a bit closer, brought her arms around her. Brushed their lips together, so softly Blake could let herself think she’d imagined it.

But Blake (thank the Gods) came to her senses the next moment. She blinked quickly, feeling like someone waking up to shadows on the wall and realizing that the day had already passed. This mercenary was as dangerous as she’d suspected, though in ways she was only now starting to understand.

She stepped to the side, putting a deliberate radius of space between them. “Glad you didn’t end up falling to your death,” Blake said, sounding a little clipped even to her own ears. She snagged her sword out of the air when Yang tossed it back to her.

With the sleeve of her shirt, Yang wiped the sweat that had beaded up on her temple. She smiled a bit crookedly, looking like she understood more than Blake wanted her to. “Don’t get all soft on me now, chief,” she murmured. Yang turned and looked up at the mural again. “Seems a bit of a shame I climbed all that way for a trinket, though. Especially since we don’t even know yet what good these things will do us.”

When they reemerged on the other side of the karst, into the rolling field that was still filled with heat and fog and loud with insects, Yang offered the statue to Blake. She turned it over in her hands, for a moment distracted by the fine craftsmanship alone, the individual feathers of each half-extended wing, the glittering sun pattern of the robe, the aquiline shape of the handle of her sword sheathed at her side. The sunstone eyes set deeply into a furrowed, furious expression—so different from Bulan’s quiet sorrow. “A beautiful trinket at that,” Blake breathed. She examined it closer, as if at any moment, some hidden compartment would become evident. “You really didn’t see anything else up there?”

Yang thought a moment, chewing her lip. “The final piece of the mural,” she said, a small crease in her brow. “There was something—”

“So, this is where you’ve been,” a voice drawled, making both of them jump. Or, maybe Blake was the only one who jumped. Yang just seemed to go very still.

Blake pivoted sharply, drawing her weapon, and saw an unfamiliar woman appear from around one of the reliefs. She folded her arms and looked mildly exasperated, as if they’d kept her waiting.

Though Blake couldn’t shake it out of her mind that this woman somehow _wasn’t_ unfamiliar, not completely. Her eyes weren’t violet but darkly red, like the shiny skin of black cherries. Her hair wasn’t gold but as deeply black as ink. Her face was older, the expression in it…somehow chilling. Unkinder. Or maybe there was just something harder about the lines in it, the remoteness in the gaze, like nothing could surprise her. Still, there was something about this stranger, without any reason Blake could immediately unravel, that reminded her so strongly of _Yang_.

And maybe that was when she knew. Even before the woman uncrossed her arms and Blake saw the insignia over her heart—the dark, unmistakable, scarlet-eyed symbol of a raven—and the other bandits bled out of the darkness of the jungle. They surrounded them in an instant, weapons drawn.

Blake knew it even before she turned back to Yang, trying to catch her eyes, and found her staring straight ahead, impassive. Ah, that was right, Blake thought. Something always happened. The moment you forgot it could.

“You really know how to make an unexpected entrance,” Yang said, the muscle of her jaw taut. “Mom.”


	6. Tribe

Blake had forgotten something else—the last thing she should’ve forgotten. That she’d been waiting for a moment like this one, the inevitable betrayal. That somebody had to play the role of the wolf in the end. Blake glanced around at the dozen or so mercenaries that surrounded them in the field, weapons glinting in the sun like bared teeth. _And here’s the rest of the pack_ , she thought.

The realization settled hard, fast, an explosion in the back of her head, blowing everything apart in a flash of light. Why was she so angry? Why did she look back at Yang and feel so _angry_? She hadn’t just forgotten Yang’s act, she’d _fallen_ for it. So quickly (had it happened the night before in the ruined tower? even earlier than that?) she hadn’t even noticed the drop. Oh, that was bitter. In the end, Blake was just the one who’d butchered her own lines.

“Why do you look so surprised?” Blake said, her voice so cold in her ears despite the burning in her head, her throat. “Didn’t you call them here?” Gods, she’d been such an idiot. It wasn’t like it’d never cost her in the past, shutting your eyes to somebody’s true face until it was impossible to ignore it anymore.

But even knowing all that, even with all her anger—when Yang finally turned to her, her hands opening and closing, her breath caught in her throat, like she was scared of something, Blake almost wavered.

“I…” Whatever emotion that was, Yang seemed to force it down, brushing her hair back from her face. When she took her hand away again, she looked like a completely different person. (And the girl who’d called Blake gutsy, the girl who’d said Blake had changed—had those just been masterful performances, too? It made her sick to think that.) “I didn’t call them. They found me.”

“You’ve always been easy to find.” The black-haired woman (it could only be Raven Branwen, Blake figured, taking her in) ambled closer. “Though I did start to worry when we didn’t spot you on the river. You sure kept us waiting, Yang.”

So that was when Yang had planned to sell her out, huh? The mouth of the river? Or maybe that had only been the rendezvous point. Yang would’ve found a moment to slip away, pass intel, the Moon Gate relic, along to the others. That was how Blake would’ve done it, at least—had she been the one with the knife to Yang’s back.

Yang shifted her weight, smiling, but in the way that wild animals curled their lips back when you put your hand too close. Blake wondered why the energy between them was like this, the hackles up, so tense and on-guard. Whether the rumors about the Tribe’s messy succession drama were true or not, wasn’t Yang still one of them? She was looking at Raven as if the other woman was a spitting Naga. “Luck wasn’t exactly on our side yesterday,” was all she said.

Raven chuckled, her arm resting lazily across the long hilt of the sword slung at her hip. “I saw the show from down here. Looks like it might’ve turned in your favor.” Her eyes slid to Blake, who felt herself frown, her eyes narrowing slightly. Raven seemed almost charmed by that greeting. “Or maybe,” she added, “it had something to do with this _expert_ of yours.”

Blake felt her mouth go dry, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at Yang again. “So that was the plan,” she said, and somehow she felt frighteningly steady as the pieces began to snap in place. “You’d hit a rut out here just like the Fang, just like everybody else, so you sent Yang to…find someone who could get results.”

“Well, don’t you catch on fast? You know, the way Yang told it, it sounded a little unbelievable. Like fate.” Raven stepped close enough now to clap Yang on the back of the shoulder. Though Yang, still so infuriatingly silent, moved out from under her hand. “The moment she goes looking for an expert on Menagerian culture, who does she stumble across but a displaced royal looking for the very same thing that we are. And holding onto a shiny ancient relic, to boot.”

“I wouldn’t call them _results_ just yet,” Yang said, folding her arms. “Relics or not, a key without a door is still useless.” Blake wondered where the sudden pessimism was coming from. It didn’t sound like her (not that Blake could really call herself an authority, all things considered).

Raven watched Yang a moment, like she found it strange, as well. She shrugged, her gaze landing coolly on Blake again. “And how about you? Think those artifacts are _worth_ anything?”

Blake took two, careful steps backward, her sword held at an arm’s length between them. “I think my opinion wouldn’t make much of a difference to you,” she said, slowly. “I think you wouldn’t go to the trouble if you thought they were worthless. You’re an opportunist. The things you can’t use, you…” _Leave them behind._ “Discard them.”

Dark eyes glinted, though it was impossible to say if the feeling in them was displeased or delighted. “You’re pretty perceptive. That’s refreshing,” Raven said. “Means I don’t have to explain myself too much.” She snapped her fingers. “Vernal. Please relieve our expert of her pack. I’m sure it’s heavy.”

Almost instantly, a woman with close-cropped hair and an elaborate tattoo on her arm (some kind of bird in flight?) appeared at Raven’s side. She reached for Blake, smirking. “Don’t do anything stupid, now. Just hand it over without making a fuss.”

Blake took another step back, still pointing Gambol outward. “That’s…not going to happen.”

The woman, Vernal, sneered, raising her own weapon, a pair of circular blades shaped a bit like deer horns, twin-barrel shotguns jutting out from the handgrips. “You think I won’t just _take_ —?”

Vernal jumped back as a gunshot split the air, sudden and ominous like a crack in the surface of a frozen lake, the ground smoldering right where she’d been standing. The gun in Yang’s arm snapped back into place as she straightened. “Aren’t you the one about to do something stupid?” she asked, hard-eyed. “We still need her.”

This must’ve been that ambitious lieutenant, Blake realized, glancing between them. The one threatening to win Raven’s favor and the succession of the Tribe. That much was obvious in the way Yang glared, the way Vernal’s hand twitched at her side like she was having trouble keeping it there.

Feeling a bubble of irritation rise and burst in her chest, Blake wasn’t having any trouble at all. She turned Gambol’s sharp end on Yang, the point hovering just under her chin. Yang looked too stunned to even speak. “A parasite to the end,” Blake hissed. And it almost felt good, saying something that could inflict even a fraction of her own hurt—even though Adam’s words in her mouth felt wrong and dry, left a bitter aftertaste.

The muscles in Yang’s throat moved and Blake swore she could see something slipping from her expression, less a mask than a bit of silk, just barely hiding anything. Blake leaned toward her without meaning to, sword lowering, transfixed by the glimpse of what was there underneath. But then Raven laughed an abrupt, harsh laugh, drawing their attention away from each other.

“You know, I hate to break up this little lovers’ feud, but…” All that easy composure—Blake could see straight through it, into something coldblooded, an almost unsettling singlemindedness. Raven held out her hand. “The relics, Your Highness?”

Yang shifted her weight again. “If she’s coming with us anyway, what’s the point of taking them?”

When Raven folded her arms, her eyebrows lifting high, she looked just like Yang but all wrong, a trick mirror in a dark room. “You’re awfully soft on her, aren’t you?” she asked, and Yang stiffened. Raven sighed and moved to brush Yang’s cheek with her hand, for a moment looking almost startlingly like a real mother. “Careful not to overstep in your concern,” she added, and though her voice was soft, the words themselves weren’t.

Yang pushed Raven’s hand away, seeming to regain a bit of her fire. “Without her help, that treasure is _nobody’s_.”

“…Is that so?”

If it was Adam, Blake thought—couldn’t help but think. If it was Adam, and Blake was the one talking back, that would’ve been the part where his patience ran out. Thinking back on those outbursts, there was something so petulant and pathetic about them, like a child burning ants with a magnifying glass. Still, when you were caught under the white-hot beam of it, you couldn’t even think to do anything at all except curl up and burn.

In Raven, there was that flash of impatience, of veiled astonishment, but nothing that seemed like a loss of control. Maybe that was just a matter of experience. “Then you better make sure she doesn’t run off,” she said at last, reaching to her belt. Gravity Dust bolas, more stolen Atlas tech. She shoved them to Yang’s chest. “I doubt she’ll come with us so easily.”

Yang took the bolas, glancing wordlessly between them and Blake. And Blake had no idea what to make of it, that hesitation in her eyes, the way her hands lowered and curled at her sides. “I really don’t think—”

“Vernal,” Raven called, sharply, and the lieutenant gladly trained her guns back on Blake, smiling and cocking one eyebrow like it was all a show to her.

“Gods, _alright_.” Yang took one step toward Blake, who collapsed her sword but didn’t raise it. Aside from Vernal, the rest of the bandits still waiting on the fringes of the scene all had their eyes, their guns, right on Blake. “Just drop it,” Yang said, in a thin voice that wasn’t like her either, taking another step closer. “Please, Blake…just drop it.”

Blake had been in desperate situations like this before, plenty of them, but something had shaken her confidence this time. Something about Yang, something about the glimpse (or the mirage) of that precarious soft heart beneath all the steel and fire, the way she said Blake’s name only at a time like _this_. How she’d disarmed Blake probably long before this moment.

Gambol clattered against the stone beneath her feet. “I guess you’re a professional, after all,” Blake said, staring straight ahead of her as Yang moved behind her and pinned her wrists together.

Yang didn’t respond to that as she tied Blake’s arms behind her back, clicking the lock in place. Still…Blake wondered if anyone else could see it, the things she sensed in that instant, unmistakable —the unsteadiness of Yang’s hands, the way her breath stuttered softly against the nape of Blake’s neck.

“Well, you know me,” Yang suddenly murmured, under her breath. Like it was only meant for Blake. She almost started when she felt Yang’s fingertips against her hand, pressing a thin piece of metal into the fold of her palm. _A hairpin?_ Blake thumbed the edges of it, blinking slowly. “I don’t do anything halfway.”

Those were the words ringing like a gong in her head all while Raven, looking more or less assured that Blake had been declawed, spun away and motioned for the rest of the Tribe to follow. Yang led Blake by the arm across the clearing, Gambol slung across her back.

But then, still looking ahead, straight-faced, Yang brought them up short. And for a moment, no one noticed it, not even when Yang released Blake and took a step backwards, Ember Celica clicking faintly.

She thrust her arm up above her head, a burst of sound and light whistling out from her gauntlet as she fired off a flare just like she’d done back at the Moon Gate. The flare broke out over the towering treetops, exploding across the blue sky in a smear of gray smoke and neon orange.

Everyone else turned to the sound in surprise except for Raven, who stilled, her shoulders tensing and untensing. She revolved slowly in place, finding Yang, her expression grave. Yang gazed back at her, unblinking and firm. They stood that way, like two desperados from a monochromatic old Vacuan movie, for what felt to Blake like an impossibly long moment, nobody moving, nobody daring to say anything at all.

Blake snuck a glance at Yang, who’d squared her shoulders, who didn’t have a trace of hesitation in her stance—though in the delicate place beneath the edge of her jaw, Blake could see the twitch of her pulse, the rapid drum of her heartbeat.

Vernal was the first to break the deafening silence. “What the _fuck_ was that? You just gave away our position!”

Raven didn’t take her eyes from Yang once. “She knows that.”

And somehow Raven looked like she understood something not even Blake, watching the whole scene unfold, watching Yang’s face, feeling the shape of the pin in her hand, could make herself understand.

The entire clearing fell abruptly into darkness, like a heavy curtain closing on a stage at the end of an act. Blake glanced up and for a moment thought she was looking at an eclipse, or a shadow clinging to the sun, growing quickly.

A shrill cry shattered the stillness of the air and Blake winced, her ears ringing, nearly dropping the hairpin. Those great black wings—Blake imagined that wingspan must’ve been as long as the ageless trees at the Heart were tall—stretched out across the sky like spilled ink as the Garuda began its descent.

So it was real, after all. (She was too stunned for a moment to think anything else than that.) At least, whatever it was, it was no trick of the light. Blake glanced around and watched as everyone else in the clearing looked up at the Grimm, their faces contorting with similar expressions of horror and awe.

“Now you’ve fucking done it,” Blake muttered, fumbling to work the lock of the cuffs open. But why? _Why_ had Yang done it? Was she saving Blake or not? Or was Yang just giving Blake a fair shot before she saved her _own_ ass in the confusion?

Yang opened her mouth like she was about to say something to her but then snapped it shut, shoving Blake out of the way as a circular blade blurred between them. Blake twisted, tucking into a roll. She sprung back to her feet in time to see Vernal and Yang locking weapons in a spray of sparks before breaking apart again.

Vernal curled her lip. “You’ve always been the one who couldn’t—” She grunted, crossing her blades to block Yang’s metal fist, half-buckling under the impact. “Couldn’t handle the dirty work, even when it was _necessary_. And yet you were the one who was _always_ forgiven.” She threw Yang off of her. Even as a complete outsider, Blake could see that the mask of smug indifference had finally slipped. Could see the resentment that had long-simmered beneath it. “But even if Raven couldn’t see it, I knew you’d turn on us eventually.”

“No, you didn’t,” Yang said, blocking a swipe to her head, dodging another. She grabbed Vernal’s wrist as it passed, jerking her off-balance and sweeping her legs out from under her so that she wiped out in the dust. Yang turned, grinning down at her. “You were just jealous.”

Blake almost had the lock open. She gave the pin a sharp twist and heard the _click_. The dark shape in the sky was now right on top of them. Blake saw Yang run toward her, but that was the only thing she saw before the impact, the shockwave of enormous wings thrusting down, sending everyone flying into the air like debris in a tornado.

Yang flailed, seizing Gambol, which was still slung across her back, and thrusting the blade down into the earth. Finally freeing her hands, Blake reached out, missing Yang’s outstretched hand and just barely grabbing Yang’s belt before she got blown off her feet.

Yang grunted some quip that got lost in the sound of rushing air, of the two of them crashing back down to the ground, Blake landing half on top of her. She stumbled to her feet, Yang following, and looked up at the Garuda, now perched on top of the Sun Gate at full height, its scarlet beak and eyes stark against the shadow of its body—like the spark of Fire Dust in a pitch-black mine, or a red sun hanging low over a vast, impenetrable ocean.

It was just the two of them now at the center of the clearing, the accused standing before a looming and ancient and deeply pissed-off judge. Blake risked a glance behind herself and saw scattered bandits littering the field, some running toward the trees, some too stunned by the sight of the thing to move. And Vernal was there near the edge of the jungle, shakily getting to her feet. But Raven wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

With a jerk, Yang freed Gambol from the dirt, tossing it back to her. “You weren’t kidding about this thing,” she said, swallowing hard. “I mean, uh…not like we haven’t kicked giant monster ass before, though, right?”

Blake’s wiped her palms on her shirt, finding it hard to speak around the knot of mingling terror and frustration in her throat, wisps of her anger still clinging to her. _We?_ Were they a _we?_ Was she being sold out or not? She gripped the hilt of her sword, forced all of those lingering questions down, willed herself to focus on one disaster at a time. “Please tell me you had a plan in mind.”

Yang shrugged, raising her fists. “ _Don’t get eaten_ is a start, I figured.”

“I’m…” Blake pinched her nose. “Starting to wonder if using you as bait wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

“Well, good luck with that, because that thing is definitely looking _right_ at you.”

“At…?” Blake’s eyes traveled up again to the Garuda still perched unsettlingly on the Gate. She found its eyes again. They burned right into hers, predatory and unblinking. “The relics,” she said, her mouth going dry. “It’s because I have the relics. It…senses them on me.”

“Then I guess taking them off your hands would be doing you a favor.”

They both turned to see Raven, calmly approaching, drawing her sword. She didn’t give Blake the chance to react, blurring suddenly right in front of her, her sword sweeping like a lightning strike. Blake locked blades with her, the force of the blow sending her skidding backwards.

“Blake, watch it!”

She turned in time to see the Garuda finally move, as if it had been deliberating on the moment to do it. It bent down toward them, its beak stretching wide and wings fanning out around it, once more blocking out the light from everything that lay beneath it. Compared to it, they were all like dolls strewn at the bottom of a toy chest. Blake felt herself freeze as it loomed above her, the beak snapping shut and swallowing her up in darkness.

But then, a sliver of light cut through it, widening. Yang was there in front of her, her arms trembling, hands pressed to the roof of the beak. She grunted, planting her feet down on its thrashing tongue, prying its massive jaws open again by some inhuman burst of strength.

The head whipped, and Blake felt herself knocked loose, tumbling out into the grass—though Yang was still locked in place, straining against the vice-like pressure that threatened to crush her flat.

“Yang—”

The air in her lungs rushed out of her in a gasp, the heel of somebody’s boot striking her between the shoulder blades. Blake caught herself on her hands, barely rolling away to avoid the diagonal slash of Raven’s sword as it gouged deep into the stone. There was a bite of pain in her shoulder like a wasp sting that made her wince.

Blake raised Gambol Shroud, her eyes darting quickly to Yang, who was starting to buckle under the weight. “You can go back to trying to kill me _later_ ,” she snapped. “We need to—”

“Help Yang?” Raven finished, cocking an eyebrow. “Are you forgetting who brought that thing down on top of us to begin with?”

Selfish to the core even now, Blake thought. Even in a situation like this, Raven couldn’t help but fall back on the lofty comfort of her true nature. Blake’s free hand drifted down to her pocket. She thumbed the edge of a Dust cartridge. “She’s your _daughter_.”

“If she’s really a child of mine, if she’s strong enough, she’ll pull herself out of that on her own,” Raven said, in a voice so calm and callous it sent a shiver of disgust down Blake’s spine. “But she’s not my priority right now.”

Yang’s whole body shook now, each muscle pronounced and straining against the force, her metal forearm flush with the inside of the beak. She started to curl in on herself as the Garuda’s head thrashed to one side and then the other. For a moment, her eyes met Blake’s, wider than Blake had ever seen them.

Blake turned back to Raven, clicking the magazine into place. “And you’re not mine,” she said.

Raven spun to avoid it but wasn’t quite fast enough, and in an instant, Ice Dust covered nearly the entire right half of her body. Her expression flew wide as she struggled to free herself, her sword arm pinned. Blake bit back a smirk and pivoted toward the Garuda, Yang still trapped in its mouth.

“Heads up, Yang!” she called, firing three shots right down its throat.

The Garuda shrieked and bit down on the thick sheet of ice encasing half of its head, clouds of vapor rising from its mouth, cracks forming in the Dust like spiderwebs. Yang dropped her arm and thrust herself out through the momentary gap it left, her back hitting the ground as she tumbled. She laid there for a moment with her arm thrown over her head, staring blankly up at the towering Grimm, at the sky, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Blake knelt at her side, dragging her up by the arm. “We need to move.” Ice shattered and fell around them in head-sized chunks as the Garuda shook itself free, one cherry-red eye swiveling wildly, landing on the two of them. “We _really_ need to move.”

A taloned foot—each claw the length of entire Sabyr—materialized and came down on top of them, missing them by a hair. It gouged deep into the earth, cage-like as it pinned them down. Blake stared out from between the talons, her eyes darting around the clearing. Bandits were shouting to each other. The Tribe was starting to recede into the jungle. Least surprising of all, Raven was nowhere to be seen.

Yang was shaking her head as if coming out of a daze. “You know, not one of my best plans, I’ll admit.”

The Garuda stared between its claws at them with a predatory tilt of its head, its beak snapping.

Blake crouched farther back in the hollow of the impression in the ground it’d made. “Oh, you fucking think?” She paused, clutching Gambol close to her chest as she studied Yang’s expression. “…How much of that was planned? From the start?”

She’d asked it but the truth was, she wasn’t sure if she really wanted the answer. And Yang didn’t seem to know how to give it, opening and closing her hands at her sides.

Then again, maybe Blake didn’t even need to hear the words themselves to know. After all, she could see it plainly enough in the wide, violet eyes that peered back at her from the shadow of the Garuda, in the quietly mystified ripple of unease that crossed her features: _None of it_.

So, why, when Yang fired a few quick shots, sending up a smokescreen for them to make their escape, did Blake let Yang grab her by the wrist and pull her along? Why did she only look ahead, unable to peel her eyes away from the shape of Yang’s back and the bright flash of her hair, not even to track the Garuda behind them as the silhouette of its extended wing fell slantwise across the field?

And _why_ , when Yang recovered the motorcycle she’d abandoned at the tree line and held out her hand toward Blake, not expectantly but like she knew she was giving Blake a choice, like she knew instead of Blake’s hand in return she could just as likely get the glinting edge of her sword—

Why did Blake take it and, as she leaned into the solid warmth of Yang’s body, shut her eyes against the blur of trees?


	7. Out of the Sky

As much as she tried to fit all the pieces together in her mind, Blake couldn’t make sense of it. Everything that had happened back at the Sun Gate felt like some sort of fever dream, or like waking up from one nightmare and slipping immediately into another. And she’d already known some of it from the start, at least, even if she’d forgotten it: that Yang couldn’t really be trusted (despite Blake’s own softening intuition), that theirs was a conditional alliance. Easy to get swept up in, sure, but headed inevitably in one direction only. Those were just the rules of gravity.

She saw Yang’s head turn slightly to her as the two of them shot down the narrow jungle path. Where were they going? Blake wanted to ask her that, but the words rose and evaporated. A stream ran alongside them, glinting silver through the trees like an unraveled bolt of silk.

Yang faced forward again, the bike slowing, coming to a stop at the base of a tree covered over with long vines. She cut the engine but didn’t say anything, rubbing her neck like she wasn’t even sure where to begin.

Blake scoffed and lowered her arms. “If you have something to say—”

“You should let me look at that,” Yang quietly interrupted, sliding off of the bike. She shrugged her pack off, kneeling to dig around in the smaller pockets.

Blake couldn’t really pin down the reason, but Yang suddenly being so quiet, strangely passive, even, was starting to piss her off. “Excuse me?”

“Your shoulder.”

Blinking, she looked down at herself, at the thin trails of blood running down to her elbow, up to the horizontal slit in the fabric of her sleeve and the gash in her upper bicep. She hadn’t even noticed it, back when she’d clashed with Raven. That pain of it had only been a blip in her mind at the time—as she’d stared up at Yang, trapped in the Garuda’s beak, about to be crushed to death.

Still, even as she stood there remembering the horror she’d felt then, and the relief that had washed over her when Yang had tumbled free in one piece, the voice that came out of her was low and biting: “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Now Yang did turn to her, a roll of bandages in one hand, her mouth opening uncertainly. “What do you—?”

The way she was looking at her lit some kind of fuse in her. Provoked her. Blake swung her leg, dismounting the bike, and seized the front of Yang’s shirt. Yang stumbled back a few steps before regaining her footing, her hand coming up and gripping Blake’s wrist to keep herself upright.

And even though Blake knew it was just a reflex, that she hadn’t meant anything by it, she felt her body jerk back as if from a snakebite, her arm wrenching free.

Yang furrowed her brow as it happened, processing it without comment. “Blake…” She kept herself still. “I just want to help.”

“ _Help_? So now you’re on my side?” Blake demanded, and Yang seemed to flinch from that question. Blake slipped the straps of her own pack off her shoulders, careful with the wound, stepping quickly around Yang. “I think you should run back to your tribe, mercenary.”

“That’s impossible now. You know it is.”

Blake crouched by the clear running water, scrubbing her skin clean of dried blood. She tore a corner of the thin blanket that was folded in her pack, bundling it and pressing it to the cut to staunch the bleeding. And, sure, Blake did remember it, vividly. The way Yang had stared at Raven from across the field. There were things she’d done back there that couldn’t be undone. If it was really part of some grander scheme, Blake herself found it hard to imagine what came next for her.

“Then why did you do it?”

Yang stooped beside her—well, not quite beside her. About three feet away from her, bending by the edge of the stream, jabbing a stick into the pebbly earth. “I wanted to see it through,” she said, simply.

Blake wondered why that frustrated her, why she wanted to think that it couldn’t be all there was to it. “So you’d bet against the Tribe like that?”

“More like I’m betting on you.” Yang sucked in her lower lip, like she hadn’t meant to say that. Like she wanted to say more. “You don’t back down from a challenge, Blake. So, it’s like you…you make people wanna follow where you lead. Like they can trust that things will work out.” She trailed off, flushing slightly. “Okay, so you’re looking at me like I fucking grew another head just now, great.”

Blake came back to herself in a rush, looking down at her hands, one curled tightly inside the other, white-knuckled. Yang didn’t know a thing about her—that was her first thought. But her second was worse, that Yang had peered too close, made out shapes from the shadows that Blake herself didn’t want to name. _People wanna follow where you lead._ There was once a time when Blake would’ve said that about Adam, that there was something so magnetic about him and his intensity, and without any sick feeling or flash of memories attached to it, even. And there was a time when hearing the same said about _her_ would’ve made her warm with pride instead of the opposite.

“Things don’t just work out like that, just because you want them to,” Blake said at last. “Or because you have this idea in your head that I’m—” Someone who knew what the hell she was doing. Someone stronger. Blake looked down at her reflection in the water but she couldn’t even find the shine of her own eyes in it. “Someone else. I’m not…a safe bet, you know.”

It was strange. She still hadn’t been able to let go of that anger from before, still felt the sting of Yang’s dishonesty. (Of course, she had to admit that most of that anger was at herself.) But part of her wished Yang had just done what she’d planned on doing from the start and sold Blake out. At least then things wouldn’t be so complicated.

Yang didn’t move closer, but she angled her body toward Blake, her face softening. “If I was after ‘safe’ I would’ve become a—I don’t know, a gardener or something.” (Blake almost pictured that: Yang crouching among flowers, the back of her sunburned neck.) Yang cleared her throat, shifting on her haunches. “Look, about back there? I’m sorry. For keeping you in the dark about Raven the whole time. That was…really shitty of me.”

Blake blew a sharp breath out through her nose, her head dropping onto her arms. She’d been so stupid. Yang was a stranger and a _gamble_ but she’d put her life in those hands so many times, told Yang things that could come back to bite her if she wasn’t careful. Even some things she never imagined she’d say out loud to anyone.

“You’re not a very good bandit,” she said, her voice muffled. She raised her head and—Gods, that just proved it, didn’t it? Vicious bandits didn’t look at you like that, so openly, all that knee-jerk sincerity. It was no wonder Blake had forgotten to be suspicious. (Blake wondered what kind of person Yang would’ve been if she’d stayed in Patch. They probably wouldn’t have even crossed paths.) “And it’s not like I don’t know how that game goes. I’ve been on your side of it plenty of times in the past. You were just following your mission.”

Yang wasn’t moving any closer but it felt like she was, like she was getting bigger in Blake’s periphery. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“So noble,” Blake replied, flatly. She tossed the rag aside. “Now you’re trying to do the right thing?”

“Aren’t you?”

She fell silent, her hands dipping into the stream again. She let water flow out of her palms. “I don’t think I could even tell you what that means, anymore. I’m just…”

“‘Atoning for your own fuck-ups’…?” Yang asked, a trace of humor in her tone. “Or so I hear.”

The night when she’d said that felt like a million years ago instead of just a few days. “Another thing that’s easier said than done.”

“ _Atoning_ , huh? Something nice about the sound of that,” Yang said, and when Blake looked at her in surprise, the corner of Yang’s mouth curled up, half wistful. “I’m more about actions over words, myself.”

Blake quirked a brow. “Calling the Garuda down on us was your idea of changing your ways?”

A laugh burst out of her, and for some reason, the sound of it came like a relief. Blake felt tension melt from her body. “I don’t know about changing my ways, but…” She peeked over at Blake, almost shyly. “You probably won’t believe me when I say this, and why would you? But I really do like you. Maybe it’s selfish, maybe I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, but I just think we make a pretty good team. All things considered.”

“All things considered,” Blake echoed, sighing. Though she’d be lying if she said her veins weren’t humming beneath her skin all because Yang had said something like that, so simply, like it was obvious— _I really do like you_.

All signs pointed to disaster. The thief with the checkered past and the mercenary (or was it ex-mercenary now?) with secrets of her own—as it happened, secrets that had almost gotten both of them killed. She wondered if they would’ve been having this conversation at all if things had gone to plan, if the Naga hadn’t thrown them off course.

Then again, Blake had to admit that as much trouble as they got in, they got each other out of it, too. Maybe it would be stupid to knowingly give her trust away this time, and she didn’t—not completely. But she was stubborn, probably more than anyone even knew. She wanted to finish what they’d started.

“You know, I’m still not sure what to make of you, but…” Blake lifted her arm to her, her head turned away. “I don’t think I could wrap this shoulder well enough on my own.”

She wasn’t watching Yang’s face then but she could still feel Yang’s smile. A little like how you could feel sunlight on your skin. “Sure, chief.”

Her hands were gentle as they rolled Blake’s sleeve up, one of them warm, fingertips firm but careful against her skin, one of them much cooler and smoother to the touch. She bandaged the arm neatly, breathing softly through her nose. Blake tried not to watch her too much as she did it—something about that felt like crossing a line.

Yang sat back. “Okay, you’re all done.”

“Right, tha—” But when Yang sat back like that, Blake saw it, the tear in Yang’s pant leg. The skin beneath, slick with blood. “Yang, you’re bleeding, too.”

“Wha— _hey_.” She made a noise in the back of her throat when Blake lifted her ankle, pitching her backwards onto the palms of her hands. “It’s not that bad. I don’t even feel it.”

Blake shoved the ripped pant leg up to her knee to look at it. Wasn’t that bad? No, it was a fairly deep-looking laceration in the back of Yang’s calf. No question, it was worse than Blake’s own injury. “How did you not feel this?” She paused, her hands stilling against Yang’s shin. “When did this happen?”

“Sorry?”

“Yang, when did you _get_ this?”

She rubbed the back of her neck, seeming like she was having trouble remembering it. Her movements seemed suddenly…slower. She blinked, and that seemed slow, too. “I don’t know. I think it was…back when I was fighting the Garuda. I remember being surprised that the tongue is actually…sharp.”

“Hey—”

Yang started to lift a hand to her head, but her arm fell heavily back to the dirt, and then, so did the rest of her. Her eyes slipped closed.

~

It was easier to clean and stitch and dress a wound when somebody wasn’t awake to feel it—Blake could at least feel grateful for _that_ as she carefully pulled Yang’s pant leg back down her shin, over new bandages. The rest of it, however.

Blake’s shoulder burned as she dragged Yang back over to the bike, but eventually she was able to drape her onto it, roll them along the path of the stream. The stream widened, dropped off steeply, tumbling down slick rocks.

There were cave systems all throughout the jungle. The Ancients had plenty of legends about them; some of those stories were about sanctuary, and some—well, suffice it to say, if you were lucky, you would stumble on one where nobody else was home. The small, hidden cave behind the clear ribbon of water looked…promising enough.

Blake splashed down into the lower part of the stream, her arms beneath Yang’s as she dragged her, grunting under her breath. Catching somebody out of the air with the support of your momentum was one thing. Hefting some beefy mercenary’s entire semi-unconscious body around on your own was _extremely_ another.

Though there was no helping getting splashed a little by the water as they passed under it, at least it was comparatively cool and dry in the snug corner of the cave. And free of any cave-dwellers, benign or otherwise. Blake propped Yang gently against the stone, throwing her own ripped blanket over Yang’s shoulders.

After a moment, Yang’s eyes fluttered open. “Blake…” Her voice came small and strained. “The hell is wrong with me? …Body won’t move.”

Unable to stop herself, Blake reached and brushed Yang’s bangs back from her forehead. “The Garuda is rare, and those who see it up close and personal don’t often return to tell anyone about it. So the stories don’t say a lot—sometimes the texts even conflict.” Yang looked like she was listening, though with effort, her eyes pinching as she fought to keep them open. “But there are some legends that warn about the toxins in its saliva, how it can cause temporary paralysis. How it makes you hallucinate. Some even claim it gives people prophetic dreams.”

Yang’s chest shook a little, like she was trying to laugh. “Got bitten by a demon bird and…lost all feeling in my limbs. Cool.”

“It’s your own fault for jumping down its throat,” Blake reminded her, though her voice came out softer than she’d meant it to.

Yang’s eyes were soft on her, too. “Eh, worth it. You…you should’ve seen how worried you looked, though.”

If not for the fact that Yang was lying there debilitated, Blake probably would’ve hit her. “I’m not that heartless, you know. To not be scared when someone’s in trouble.”

“You’re not heartless at all,” she said, sounding strangely lucid, though the next moment, her expression tinged with amusement, as if she’d suddenly thought of something. “You…really don’t play around, though. Still can’t believe you _shot_ my _mom_ …”

“Well, your mom was being a—” Blake cut herself off, much to Yang’s visible disappointment. She sat beside her, her back against the uneven wall of the cave. Their legs didn’t quite touch. “Raven isn’t a good person.”

Yang seemed to sober at that. “No. She’s not.” Before Blake could say anything else, Yang said, “I had a dream, you know. When I was out. Don’t know it if was one of your ‘prophetic’ ones or whatever, but it was, like… _super_ vivid.”

She needed to keep her talking. There was no telling what would happen if Yang slipped into unconsciousness again now, while the toxins were still in full effect. If she would wake up again. For some reason, Blake had a feeling that no matter what, she had to keep Yang awake.

“Tell me about it,” she whispered.

Yang chewed the corner of her lip. “Um, you were there. Kind of. You looked a little bit like Bulan, with the hood and everything, standing in a field full of…of that flower, from before. Amaranth.” Her eyes were wide in the darkness. “I reached out and touched you, but then you burned up and disappeared. And I turned around, and there you were again. Your face was different.”

Blake fought the urge to reach up and touch her own face. “And then?”

“And then…there was a tiger, moving through the jungle. Blood was on its face but it still looked hungry. I can’t really remember what happened after that.”

Blake frowned. Some prophecy, if you couldn’t even remember the end of it. For some reason it bothered her, the incompleteness of that. The hungry tiger, never satisfied. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Well, I…am a captive audience, you know.” Yang inclined her head slightly like she was trying to gesture to herself. “Guess it depends on the question, though.”

“It’s about your family.”

Yang smiled, though somehow it looked more like wincing. “I’m guessing you’re not talking about the Tribe.”

Blake sat up, shifting to her knees, facing Yang. Under the directness of Blake’s gaze, Yang’s expression seemed to waver like the end of a match. “Did you ever return home again? To Patch? Did you…ever see them again?”

“Hm.” Yang blew out a breath through her nose. “That’s not fair.”

“Then…” Blake chewed her lip. “How about this? I’ll tell you something, too. You tell me about yourself, and I’ll tell you about me. Whatever you want to know.”

“That’s _really_ not fair.” But Yang’s smile grew genuine as she said it. Her gaze flicked down and away, a little sadly. “Probably won’t be the answer you’re hoping for.”

Blake paused. So Yang could see it after all, the answer she wanted. The way it felt important to her, as if knowing it could change anything. “I guess not.”

Yang slowly tilted her head back with a small grunt of effort. Blake didn’t know what she was looking up at this time except the empty shadows—though maybe she was just trying to keep things from overflowing. “Uh, so Ruby…she tried to keep in touch, for a while. Sent letters. But eventually we just—no, I shut her out. I didn’t know how to answer them. So I shut all that out.”

“You didn’t want to see her?”

“Oh, I wanted to see her so bad it… _Gods_ , I’d lie awake every night and I’d miss her. Every night.” Yang bit down hard on the inside of her lip. Her eyes looked glassy, unfocused. “But I was scared. Sure, I never really quite…fit in with the Tribe, but I sure as hell didn’t belong back in Patch, either.”

“Yang…” Blake wanted to tell her that she understood it, losing sight of what _home_ was supposed to look like, feel like. As if you were on a raft in the middle of a dark ocean, as if the raft was only a big as you were wide. But none of that came.

Half of it, she was starting to suspect, was her own guilt. It hadn’t quite sunk in for her before, but it was sinking in now—just how much Yang had sacrificed when she’d disobeyed Raven. When she’d chosen _Blake_. How she’d gambled with the only scrap of identity, of belonging, she had left.

“What happened with the Ursa… _I_ was the one who had dragged us into that. It’d be different if she’d been older, if she could’ve defended herself, but she was just a helpless kid at the time.” Where Blake found herself struggling to speak, Yang was the opposite. It was all tumbling out of her now in a rush. “And after I got hurt…how could I expect—I know healing takes time, but when you’re a kid, when you don’t even feel like yourself or…even know what that’s supposed to mean anymore, when you feel like you’re dragging the people around you into—”

Blake shifted again, finding Yang’s hand beneath the blanket, lifting it between them. Her fingers curled around cool metal. “Yang. Look at me.” Yang’s head lowered, her gaze falling slowly to meet Blake’s. Her eyes were still slightly foggy, but they were brimming with more hurt than Blake had ever seen in them. “You were never a burden. And your family—Ruby, your dad, they never thought of you like that. _Ever_. I know they didn’t.”

And if Yang’s sudden outpouring of honesty was somehow just some side-effect of the Garuda’s venom, then Blake _really_ didn’t have any excuse for herself. There was no way she could explain the tightness of her heart in her chest without admitting to something crazy. That she felt Yang’s pain a little too much like her own, or more, and in a way that went beyond empathy alone.

Yang looked down at their hands. Her fingers twitched against Blake’s skin, barely a movement at all, but it was a good sign, at least, that some feeling was slowly coming back into her. “It was too heavy to put on them,” she whispered. “Even now, it’s too heavy. I’ve become someone they wouldn’t recognize. Someone I’m not proud of.”

“Yeah,” Blake said, rubbing her own shoulder. “You are fucking heavy.” When Yang quietly snickered at that, her fingers twitched a little bit more. Blake covered them with her other hand. “But I don’t think they’d mind, you know. I think they miss you.”

After all, Blake was heavy, too. She was scared, too. She wondered what she would even say to her mom if she ever worked up the courage to see her again—if there were words that could even express it, how much she’d broken her own heart. How much she’d lost her way.

Yang looked at her suddenly in that watchful way she often did. Like she was reading her mind. Blake lowered their hands, settling Yang’s arm across her lap.

“I bet you’ve got people missing you, too,” Yang murmured. “Like your mom back in Vacuo. Your dad, wherever he is.”

Blake stilled, reality hitting her as if she’d been falling through the air and she’d only now struck earth. “I, um…I don’t know about that.” Seeing Yang’s confusion, she sat against the wall again, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I’m not the first one in my family to go looking for Matahari’s ring, you know. When I was a kid, my dad used to lock himself in his office for hours. He was _obsessed_ with it, the stories. And the sad thing is, I never really knew why. I never got to ask him.”

The realization seemed to be dawning on Yang, whose face was drawn, a line of concern forming between her brows. “Maybe…he was after the same thing you were. Maybe he wanted to keep it out of the wrong hands.”

“The _wrong hands_. You know, I’m starting to wonder who’s allowed to say that theirs are the _right_ ones.” Blake shook her head, sighing. “Not that it matters, really. What he was after, his reasons. Why he did it alone.” _Why he left us behind_. She lifted her fingertips to her face, surprised when they came away slightly wet. She rubbed her cheek with the butt of her palm, clearing her throat. “Long story short, thieves raided his camp. There was a firefight of some kind, and, uh…local authorities found him weeks later. And all I really have left of him is that stupid relic.”

Yang grunted, her arm slipping slowly from her lap in increments, the back of her hand eventually bumping against Blake’s leg. Blake would’ve laughed at how hard Yang was trying to comfort her if the sight of her like that, still barely clinging to consciousness, sweat shining across her temple, didn’t put a lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry.” And it really did comfort her, to hear Yang say it. Because Yang knew what it felt like, that ache you had for the could-have-been (a feeling that never really left). The way you mourned the blank spaces almost as much as the person. Sometimes more than the person.

“Don’t be. I’ve already accepted it. That he made his choices.” Blake dropped her hand, though, tentatively resting her fingertips against the coolness of Yang’s palm. “And I think…I think when he sent the relic to me—just the relic, no note, no explanation—he was giving _me_ a choice. But it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like something I have to do. Like it’s a destiny I’ve been putting off for too long.”

“ _Destiny_.” Yang chuckled, closing her eyes. “I don’t know if I believe in all that.”

“Then what do you believe in?” Blake asked.

But Yang had already started to draw in slow breaths through her nose, her head dipping in toward her chest. Not quite asleep, not yet, but Blake got the feeling that she’d drifted just out of reach. There were shadows of exhaustion on her face.

Blake curled closer to her, facing her. She moved the edge of the blanket partly over herself. “You better not fucking die on me, Xiao Long,” she whispered. She couldn’t lose anyone else to this place. That was the thing she thought without saying.

It took a long time to convince herself to close her eyes, as well. As if Yang would disappear if she looked away.

~

When Blake stirred awake again, her eyes had to adjust a moment to the dimness. They traveled up to the part of the sky that was visible through the narrow entrance of the cave, blue-gray with dusk. Somehow they’d lost nearly an entire day. She couldn’t bring herself to mind it, though, after everything the morning had put them through.

Especially since she was so warm and secure in the circle of Yang’s arm, the two of them curled into each other beneath the blanket. At some point, Yang had turned in her sleep so that they were facing one another. That was good—it meant the effect of the Garuda’s toxins had worn off. At least enough that Yang could move her body on her own.

Blake’s hands were pulled up close to her, pressing against Yang’s collarbone. Her heartbeat was there, under Blake’s fingertips. Steady and strong. Yang’s knee overlapped Blake’s, her arm heavily snug against the bend of Blake’s waist.

It almost felt like they weren’t two near strangers but two _lovers_. As if they’d curled up in each other’s arms a thousand times before, a thousand different nights. The enormity of that feeling terrified her. Thrilled her. She wanted to inch even closer but she was afraid of what would happen if she did.

Then Yang drew in a sharp breath, like she was coming out of a dream, her eyes blinking open. It was impossible to say whether she could see much as her vision adjusted to the dark. If she could see Blake looking back at her from the dimness of the cave. Or if that was _all_ she could see, the reflection of eyes.

But whatever it was Yang saw, felt, in that moment, it made the pulse beneath Blake’s fingertips quicken. Her arm tightened around Blake for a moment before falling slack and gradually sliding off of her. “S…sorry,” Yang whispered. Her gaze flickered anywhere but Blake’s face.

Blake put a few inches of space between them, but it felt like lifting herself out of warm water into cold air, or like tearing a scab. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Blake said, softly. (She hoped _just_ how relieved she felt didn’t color her tone too much.)

Yang lifted her hand, curling it into a fist and opening it again. “Seems so. I’m sore as hell, though.” She sat up, gingerly, and Blake followed, the blanket sliding off of her shoulder. “You were in my dream again.”

Blake wondered why her own pulse pounded in her ears when Yang said that. “Yeah?”

“You were speaking but your mouth wasn’t moving, like you were saying it in my head.” Yang blearily rubbed a hand against her eyes, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “We were sitting together in a field, and I was, uh, twisting a flower stem around your finger. But when I looked up at you… It was kinda the same as the dream before. It was like every time I blinked, your face changed. Somehow I knew every time that it was still you, though.”

Blake stared, her breath stilling in her throat. “How did you know?”

“The feeling,” she said, quietly. “The feeling was the same. Like when your heart just knows something your mind doesn’t. Or hasn’t remembered.” It was hard to really tell for sure, but Yang seemed to blush at that. “Sorry. I’m not really making sense.”

Blake chewed her lip, and then tentatively touched Yang’s wrist, trailing up to the bend of her elbow, her shoulder, her touch gradually growing surer. Finally, her hand lifted to cup Yang’s jaw. The heartbeat beneath her palm was fluttering like crazy, like a bird’s.

“It makes sense,” she said.

Yang looked half helpless, half like she’d come up to an edge. “Blake…”

It was probably just because of that, just the way she’d said her name. Blake leaned forward and found Yang’s mouth with her own.

That voice in her head that usually would’ve stopped her from doing it was barely even a murmur. Everything else was quiet, was movement. Not quite gravitational, as she’d imagined, but like a kind of surrender. Like the decision between standing unmoved in the water or letting yourself get swept up in the gentle current.

And even when Yang’s lips parted under that pressure, even when Blake wound her fingers into Yang’s hair, swallowed the small gasp that rose in her throat—there was a gentleness that remained. Yang’s hand pressed firmly against her spine, the warmth of her palm burning through fabric (through her skin, through bone).

When Yang quietly broke the kiss, her hand rising to Blake’s cheek, there was something so alert about her eyes in the blue dusk, so transfixed and tender. Blake almost shivered under it, the weight of an attention that wasn’t sharp-edged and insatiable but almost reverent. The jungle was slowly sinking into the evening but it was like they had their own circle in the middle of it, bright and warm like firelight.

Yang let out a breath like she’d been holding it for a while. “So,” she said, clearing her throat. Blake saw the brightness of her grin, slowly filling her face, and her own smile couldn’t help but follow it. “That was something.”

Maybe Blake should’ve felt a rush of embarrassment then as the moment cooled, or regret, but she didn’t. All she felt was that she’d done something stupidly obvious. She already wanted to do it again. “Yeah. It was.”

“Should we…talk about it, or—?”

Blake sighed, turning fully to face her. Her knees came down on either side of her, arms slipping over Yang’s shoulders. Yang looked surprised but uncomplaining, her hands falling automatically to Blake’s hips, one hand settling right above her scar. Blake realized, just in the back of her mind, that she wanted to show it to Yang. Someday. ( _Someday_ —that felt like a word that was too heavy for her to even hold in her hands.) She wanted Yang to hear the rest of the story, the one about that night in Vale, and understand something.

So maybe _that_ was the embarrassing part. Blake leaned in close so Yang couldn’t see what kind of expression she was making, bumping their foreheads together. “Do we have to?”

Yang gave a startled, breathy chuckle. “No, I don’t think we do.” And there was something behind that, some extra, veiled meaning in her voice. “Still…” Her arms circled Blake, but loosely, leaving just enough room for escape. “We could.”

When Blake drew in her lip and touched Yang’s arms, slowly disentangling them from her waist, Yang seemed to understand. She smiled, a little sadly (not for the moment, for _Blake_ , for the way she suddenly found it hard to breathe), and let Blake drag them both up to their feet.

“We should, uh…” Blake stepped back, offering a conciliatory smile of her own. “Find something to get a fire going. Before we lose the light.”

And Yang was kind, so she didn’t bring up the fact that one of them could see just fine, almost perfectly, in the dark.

The two of them stepped down from the mouth of the cave, splashing into the stream below, where it widened into something like a shallow pond—lotus flowers drifting in the water like paper crowns, the humid air crowded with the sounds of frogs and insects. Yang stretched her arms above her head, and Blake watched her, cataloguing the way there still seemed to be some stiffness in her movements. And, of course, she favored one leg slightly, probably still sore from the stitches.

But there was something refreshed, too, about her, the look on her face. Admittedly, Blake felt that same feeling in herself. Refreshed. It was probably a bad idea to give yourself over to that feeling, forget yourself in the middle of it (or maybe that wasn’t really the word she meant— _forget_ ), but when Yang’s gaze slid back to her, Blake wanted to. She wanted to live in that feeling.

She tapped Yang’s elbow with her fingertips, finding it hard to really meet her eyes. “Look, I…it’s not that I…don’t wanna talk, it’s just—”

“Blake.” When she looked up at her, Yang was still smiling, one eyebrow raised. “You don’t have to explain it to me, you know? It’s really okay.”

And it _felt_ okay. Really okay. Not like Blake had made a mistake, or had said the wrong thing. She’d honestly lost count of how many of her own words Adam had twisted up and thrown back at her in the past, how many times he’d turned his wounded pride into a weapon. It pissed her off to feel her own body still tensed for the fallout, the boiling point, even now. Because despite what she seemed to think of herself, Yang was kind. Kinder than anyone really deserved.

“Yang, I—”

She froze, her ears twitching. She pulled Yang behind her, Gambol a blur as the shot that rang out from the darkness glanced off the blade.

“You should’ve ditched the bike.”

Ilia appeared at the top of the rocks, the shadows peeling away from her skin as she stared down at them, a wisp of smoke rising from the barrels of her weapon. Blake’s gaze caught on her forearms, on the bandages covering the rash of surface burns the Naga had left. She wondered if Ilia would believe her, if Blake told her how relieved she felt knowing that Ilia had managed to get away. Even though the seeing her now, _here_ , was the opposite of a relief.

“Ilia…” Blake raised her sword uncertainly, feeling Yang step up close beside her, put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Ilia’s gaze flickered to that and narrowed. “I don’t know what you want, but—”

Ilia scoffed, a sharp noise in her throat, cutting Blake off. “When did you ever know that?”

She raised her hand, as if preparing to snap the whip end of Lightning Lash with a sharp motion of her wrist, but Blake reacted faster. Gambol’s ribbon wrapped around Ilia’s arm and jerked her off her feet, and she crashed down into the shallow water, landing hard on her elbows. Water streamed from her as she scrambled to her feet again, wrenching herself free. The blade of Ilia’s weapon—thin segments of metal, wickedly sharp, humming electric—unspooled to full length as she flicked it toward Blake.

Yang was the one who intercepted the blow this time, blocking with her metal arm, her face illuminated by sparks, as she shot with the other. But for whatever reason, she didn’t aim directly for Ilia, but for the surface of the water. A cloud of mist rose up between them, obstructing Ilia’s line of sight.

Yang had left her a window. Blake darted through, crossing swords with Ilia, who was too startled to recover as Blake struck the weapon out of her grip and then leveled Gambol’s point to her throat.

Ilia swallowed, slowly raising her hands. “You can’t win this.” The expression in her eyes looked almost pleading now, though not on her own behalf. Blake bit down on the inside of her lip, pushing aside that familiar pang in her chest—not regret, something sadder than that. A kind of grief. “Blake… _please_ just let this one go. Before you get hurt. Or _killed_.”

As the mist settled around them, Blake found herself blinking condensation out of her eyelashes as she stared Ilia down. Yang came up beside her, folding her arms. For the first time, Blake noticed that the surrounding jungle had gone silent. As if holding its breath for the moment when things would inevitably collide and tumble out of the sky.

“You can’t win this either,” Blake said, lowering her sword by a hair. “Not against the two of us.”

“The two of you,” Ilia mumbled, her eyes filling with scorn, though Blake could see the hurt simmering just beneath that. Once it’d been the two of _them_. But Ilia had made her choice, that night she’d called Blake a traitor, when she’d pushed her away even after Blake had tried to tell her everything—about Adam, about what the Fang had become. And she kept making it, the same decision over and over again. Blake had made hers, too.

Ilia raised her chin. “How long can that really last?”

Even if she could’ve answered that question, she wasn’t given the chance to. She saw him before she heard him this time, stepping out of the gloom of the trees. His white mask materialized out of the darkness first, ghost-like, seemingly empty of eyes, and then others appeared behind him, stoic expressions beneath them. The silent jury of a trial with the verdict already handed over.

And Blake was ready for it now, the sight of him, or she thought she’d been ready—but then he cocked his head to one side when he saw her looking at him and smiled. Then he put a hand lightly to his sword. He stopped at the bank of the stream and watched her for a moment and it made her feel sick, something that sat low at first in her stomach before crawling its way up, or like ice was crystallizing in her blood.

She could almost convince herself that this was just another one of her nightmares, where there weren’t words, where there was only the red flash of a blade. A starless sky on a cold night. But then he finally spoke.

“You know…” Adam ran a gloved hand through his hair and sighed, like he was tired. “You’ve left quite the wake of destruction…haven’t you, Blake?”

Ilia half-turned, bristling when she realized she was being ignored—when it registered that the blade to her throat was as far from his first priority as anything could be. “Yeah, you’re welcome for tracking them down. Again. If—”

“And then they backed you into a corner even when you caught them by surprise.” Adam’s head turned only slightly toward her, expressionless, though Blake caught the tightness of his jaw. The first sign of impatience at the things that weren’t going his way. “ _Again_.”

Ilia opened her mouth and then snapped it shut again, her gaze full of loathing and stung pride, but wide with fear, as well. Blake knew just as well as anyone else that Ilia had never respected him. But Adam, to her, was a means to an end, and in the time since Blake had left, he had only climbed higher in the Fang. Gotten more powerful. Even the danger beneath that veneer of charisma could be useful, when it was your enemies who had to deal with it. And if you got burned by it yourself, then you had no one else to blame for it.

Blake understood that because she used to make those same excuses. But that felt like a lifetime ago. Ilia stepped out of the way and suddenly there was nothing between Blake and Adam but the edge of the stream. She raised her sword again, her breath juddering softly through her teeth, and she almost started when Yang stepped into view beside her, her fingertips brushing the back of Blake’s wrist just for a moment.

And maybe it was just that grazing contact, the small reassurance, that finally stilled her. Made her unforgiving. “Adam… Even now, even after all the resources and the manpower you’ve _wasted_ out here…you’ve hit the end of your rope. Haven’t you?” Adam scoffed, but it was a sound that stuck in his throat. A sore spot, after all, just like she’d guessed. A bitter truth. Blake dug her thumb into it. “And I don’t think you’d waste your precious time out here trying to hunt me down if you didn’t have a good reason for it.”

He stared, unmoving. “A reason.”

“You need her.” Both of them looked to Yang in surprise. Despite Adam’s sudden appearance, despite the eyes that peered out of the forest, uncountable, Yang stood firm and unintimidated in the water. Everything else could only bend around her. “As much as you don’t want to admit it.”

Yang speaking up had only seemed to put another crack in his porcelain mask. He sneered at her, as if he hardly even wanted to dignify that, a human outsider’s observation, with an answer. But it was obvious that something about her presence put him on edge. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to see you still here, mercenary. You see, our Blake’s never really worked well with others.”

Yang raised her eyebrows and then her metal arm, the gun snapping out of the wrist. “Maybe she just knows a losing bet when she sees one.”

Blake cut in quickly, before Yang could provoke him any further: “I know the legends better than almost anyone, and you know that. You _know_ I’m the only one who has a real shot at finding it.” Ironic as it was, she thought. Cruel as it was.

His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t draw his sword yet. He was still clinging to it, that semblance of control, of patronizing ease. But she knew from experience that it didn’t take much for the stitching to come apart.

Blake glanced at Yang, at the hardness of her eyes as they fixed on Adam, her body coiled and ready. Blake had warned her about him, but how much could Yang really know of it, that cruelty that could erupt from him without warning, the way that he was at his most unsettling when he looked the calmest? More than that, the way he—like a child, almost—destroyed and discarded the things he couldn’t use. Or whatever got in his way.

When she turned back to Adam, she caught him watching Yang, too. And when his gaze refocused on Blake, he smiled and gave a small, almost careless shrug of his shoulders. “You’re right. I need you, Blake.”

He nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and Blake registered it too late as a signal.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ilia, standing now at the bank of the stream, her face turned away from Blake. She thrust her weapon into the shallow pool, electrifying the water and Blake and Yang still standing in the middle of it. The current shot into her body, white-hot, the world going wooly at the edges as her muscles seized. Her knees struck first, and then she was looking down at her own hands, translucent in the clear water. She gasped, her vision swimming in and out as she forced herself to look up at Yang, whose arms had been restrained by two Fang soldiers.

“But do I need her?” Adam finished, drawing his sword. He pressed the point to the hollow of Yang’s throat, hard enough to draw a pearl of blood. It streaked down and stained her shirt collar.

“S… _stop_ ,” Blake broke out, hoarsely. She felt like she was wading through a fog, the blue dusk and everything else falling away. Everything but Yang, the contrast of her so stark against the darkness it hurt Blake’s eyes. “You…” Blake dragged herself up, finding Adam’s face, glaring with all the strength she had. “If you hurt her…you get nothing.”

And that was what snapped the final thread. Adam’s face darkened, the hilt of his sword cracking against Yang’s head, and she fell slack in the soldiers’ hands. If Blake could’ve screamed then, she think she would’ve.

“You’re not a very good negotiator, Blake,” he said, sheathing the blade, passing a hand through his hair again as he crouched down beside her, leaning close. “Here’s how this works. You give me what I want? Maybe I won’t hurt her as bad.”

He stood, and Blake couldn’t say anything else before he spun away from her, before another soldier took his place. The heel of somebody’s boot came into view, and the world went dark entirely.


	8. An Unkindness

_The forests of Anima were full of the hunters and the hunted. That was what Adam told her. He also told her that dusk was a good time to scout for pheasants. They were hidden together in the grass, Blake then only sixteen, her breath spooling out in front of her. She watched for signs of movement in the brush, her hands trembling slightly against the gun, and he watched her. This was a test, the first real test of many._

_“Steady yourself,” Adam whispered to her. His hand eclipsed hers for a moment on the rifle, repositioning it. “You can’t kill if you aren’t steady.”_

_His hand was even colder than the air, but Blake couldn’t help but fixate on it for a moment, the way it completely covered her own. “I’m fine,” she said, her gaze returning to the yellow field. “I’m a better shot than you.”_

_It was meant to be a joke, something that would make him smirk, that would draw some teasing remark out of him in return. But the face beneath his mask—the mask he always wore, the one she had never seen him without—darkened. The hand over hers moved, and suddenly he was bunching her coat in his fist, pushing her backwards so she had to look up at him._

_The other hand moved to his face, slowly lifting the mask, just enough to see what was beneath. Blake’s eyes widened, and she choked back a noise as she made out the shape of the angry scar, an unmistakable_ SDC _burned into his skin. The stone-like stare of a blinded eye._

_“A souvenir from Mantle,” he said, lowering the mask again. He released her, looking almost pleased at what he saw in her face. Not just horror but shame, as well. Another moment, feeling, that would inevitably become the first of many. “I guess you would be the better shot, wouldn’t you?”_

_“Adam, I…”_

_“Steady yourself.” He nodded his head to the field. “Kill the bird. Show me just how good of a shot you are.”_

_She turned back to the rifle, drawing a small, shuddering breath inward. This was a test. A test. She couldn’t let him—she couldn’t let herself be rattled so easily. If she didn’t prove herself now, here, who could say when he would give her that chance again?_

_“Aim just ahead, right?” Blake said, readjusting her grip just like he’d shown her._

_Adam nodded. “That’s right. When it flies, you aim just ahead.”_

_And when the flapping of wings disturbed the air, she looked up and saw the gold crown and startling red underbelly, the long tailfeathers like the train of a king’s mantle streaming behind it. Gods, it was breathtaking. So vibrant even against the darkening twilight field—or maybe it was because of it._

_She tracked it with her eyes, let out a slow, frozen breath as she took aim, and shot it clean out of the air. A spray of feathers, of blood, and it disappeared from view._

_“A perfect shot.” Adam smiled at her, but there was something that tainted it. A tightness to the corners of his mouth. He stood without offering her a hand up. “Not bad for your first time, princess.”_

_She felt her own answering smile fade as he started down the hill. She’d tried to tell him, once. That lately, most days, some things only felt like face painting. Like that word, even—_ princess _, the slippery, silk-like feeling of it, couldn’t suit her anymore, and not just because she couldn’t ever return to the palace in Kuo Kuana. It was because she was starting to know herself better. Some part of her had been hopeful that he’d understand what she meant, though in hindsight, maybe that had been foolish of her to think. All he’d done was lean close, brush her hair behind her ear. Tell her she was beautiful._

_And then he told her that people ought to remember where they come from. Especially princesses._

_When they found the pheasant’s bright, bloodied body in the field, Blake’s stomach turned at the sight, the mangled look of it, how its staring yellow eye looked like a marble, an object. The forests were full of the hunters and the hunted. The hunters and the hunted. You had to be steady. You couldn’t kill if you weren’t steady. Blake replayed Adam’s words in her head and tried to feel the truth of them._

_Blake sighed and looked away. “We should hurry and bring this back to camp. I’ll—”_

_Adam grabbed her arm as she started to walk away from it, his hand almost completely encircling her bicep. She could only look up at him silently as he pulled a hunting knife from his belt, holding it out to her. “We’re not done here,” he said._

You’re not done _, was more like what he meant. She took the knife from him, swallowing down that creeping nausea as her fingers curled tight around the worn handle. She looked at her hands—_

Blake jerked awake and was rewarded with the bolt of pain that the sudden movement sent through her head, the raw ache of her arms bound tight at the wrists, the unforgiving rigidity of a wooden post against her spine.

She squeezed her eyes shut again against the pounding in her skull, the last few wisps of the dream fading. It had been a long time since she’d dredged up that particular day. She’d done her best to forget it, actually. That first night, after she’d used that old hunting rifle to kill for the first time, after Adam had made her cut the pheasant open, cut out the insides, she’d lain in her cot, sleepless, shivering uncontrollably. Unable to stop picturing that staring yellow eye.

That was the first real secret she’d ever kept from Adam, that it haunted her, even though it was stupid, even though she didn’t know why she couldn’t tell him. But the years went on and she only started keeping more.

When she opened her eyes again, the world rearranged itself into the shape of a simple army tent, a lantern burning above her, casting strange shadows on the ground. And Adam was there in front of her, his arms folded, as if her thoughts had conjured him out of the dark.

“You’re awake,” he said, simply.

Blake raised her head, becoming aware of the sharp throbbing just above her left eye—the place the soldier’s heel had made contact with her face, she figured. It took a moment to refocus her gaze on Adam. When she did, the sudden thought that he’d been waiting for her to come back to consciousness—sitting there and watching her, motionless—made her skin crawl. And to think there was a time when his attention used to thrill her, make her so aware of herself. Make her, in those early days, at least, feel like she was worth something.

When she only stared at him wordlessly, he went on, leaning his chin onto his fist, “You know, I look at you and I…well, it’s easy to forget how much you’ve changed.” His voice was almost wistful. “There was a time I thought we wanted the same things. When I hoped for that.”

Blake almost opened her mouth, almost told him he was wrong, that _he_ was the one who’d changed, but she held her tongue, realizing he was right. She _had_ changed—she’d known better than to stand still. Maybe it was true, after all, that you had to steady yourself to kill, but what Adam hadn’t told her, what she’d had to learn on her own, was that if you stood still too long, you’d die. Meanwhile, Adam probably hadn’t changed since the moment she’d met him, not in any way that mattered. He’d burrowed down in his ways, in his spite, his hunger, a long, long time ago.

The smooth bone handle of his old hunting knife—her eyes caught on that, in his belt. So he still had that, too.

She stayed silent and watched him from the shadows of the tent, setting her jaw, pulling herself as upright as she could. And he tried and failed to stifle his impatience, his hand falling back into his lap, the muscle in his cheek twitching.

“I thought you’d be more talkative,” Adam said, smoothing his expression. He stood and walked over to her, crouching down right in front of her. He reached and gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her head slightly as if he was examining her bruise. She tried to jerk free of his grasp, but he held tight, leaning close, so close she could almost make out the shine of his eyes through the narrow slits of the mask. “Weren’t you trying to give me a reason to keep that mercenary of yours alive?”

Blake felt her eyes widen. She strained against the rope. “If Yang is—”

“Finally got a reaction out of you.” Adam seemed satisfied with that, her lapse in self-control, the way her expression slid between anger and numb panic. But it bothered him, too. It was obvious in the way he dropped his hand, the way he stood and looked down at her with an almost imperceptible curl of his lip. Her reaction bothered him. “That hotheaded human you’ve dragged into this—Yang, you said? She’s pretty interesting.”

Blake swallowed, slumping back against the post. Yang’s name out of Adam’s mouth sounded _wrong_ , somehow. Strangely violent. That was all she could think about in that moment.

Adam wandered over toward the flap of the entrance, where Wilt and Blush, his sword and scabbard, leaned up against the tent. “At least,”—he bent to retrieve it—“the way you’ve fixated on her is…pretty interesting.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Blake asked, flatly.

“You tell me, Blake.” Adam turned back to her, gripping the scabbard in one hand, the other loose at his side. “What’s got you so interested? Or is this another one you’ll run out on, when the time comes? Once you get scared?”

Blake glanced at the sword he still held at his side without meaning to, thought of Vale without meaning to. “You didn’t give me a _choice_ —”

“Gods, you’re still such a _fucking_ coward,” Adam snarled, the scabbard a blur as he shattered the lantern above her, the light sputtering and disappearing, the rain of glass falling in darkness as Blake ducked her head to avoid getting cut by it.

As her eye caught on the gleam of broken glass strewn around her, like scattered puddles, her dream, the rest of the memory, sudden and unpleasant, seeped into her thoughts again.

_She ran. After Adam handed her the knife, she spun away from the corpse of the bird and the yellow field and from_ him _and she ran, through the woods, not turning back even when he shouted her name. Not even when she heard him follow. She wasn’t just the better shot, though. She was faster, too._

_She came to a small, waterlogged ditch, a hollow beneath a tree, and hid there until she couldn’t hear his heavy footfalls anymore. When she was sure he was gone, she bent by the tree, flinging the knife aside, and threw up, her chest heaving almost painfully._

_It was just a bird. Just a stupid bird. Surviving out in Anima’s wilds meant hunting, meant killing. It was just a fact. But there was something about the way Adam had done it, taught her the way to use the gun, that made Blake feel like one day he’d ask more of her, and then more. Like birds weren’t even the thing on his mind whenever he realigned her hands._

_And returning to him after that was the hardest part. The hardest part was going back to that field, finding him sitting there, waiting for her. Suffering his disappointment, how small she felt under it. How he only nodded to the pheasant, still bleeding in the grass, when she returned._

_She kneeled and looked down at her hands and_ _was surprised to find them steady._

_That was the secret, she figured, to stilling yourself. You had to numb the rest of you, as well._

Adam paused, his arm lowering. “Maybe you haven’t changed so much, after all.”

“I don’t know where Matahari’s ring is,” Blake found herself blurting out. Seeing the way that seemed to put a spike of renewed anger through him, she added, “Not yet. But we were close.”

“Oh? And what makes you think that? Those trinkets we found on you?”

“They’re keys.” It was a lie. Or maybe it was the truth. Blake wasn’t really sure, but she knew she needed to give him something, anything, to sink his teeth into.

He rubbed his jaw. “Keys. But where,”—he kneeled down, pressing his sword’s hilt under her chin, raising her eyes to his—“is the _door_?” When long seconds passed without an answer, he barked out a laugh and stood, turning away from her. “I’ll give you the night to think about that. But you better have an answer for me by morning.”

Adam stopped for a moment at the entrance of the tent, half-lifting the tarp. His smile returned, the one that made her blood run cold every time. “Maybe I’ll check on your mercenary. See if she’s up for conversation this time. Our last talk was…a little unfriendly.”

When he left the tent and shut her into almost complete darkness, she didn’t scream or struggle or curse after him. She dragged a long shard of glass under her heel, up to the post, where she could reach it if she strained. And she started sawing away at the twine.

~

She’d passed out again without realizing it, exhausted as she was (or maybe it was some minor concussion, after all), only to be awoken by hushed voices. They drifted from the tent beside her own, so faint it was easy to think she was imagining them. The shard was still in her palm, so she went back to cutting through the rope, tilting her head to listen.

One voice she almost recognized, though it was pitched too low to immediately identify. “Come on, wake up. I put the guard to sleep.” A low whistle. “The Fang really did a number on you. Regret sinking in yet?”

Somebody else coughed, speaking hoarsely, “Did you sneak in here just to gloat?”

Blake’s heart pounded in her ears. Yang. That was Yang’s voice. Relief flooded her almost instantly when she recognized it, but it was a relief tainted by something painful, that helpless twinge of panic. So the other voice could only be…

“More like I came here just to get one last look at you. The Tribe won’t be coming to save you.”

_Raven_. She’d managed to escape the Garuda. And she’d known that Yang had been captured. All of that just figured.

Yang laughed tiredly under her breath. “I didn’t think they were.”

“But _I_ could, you know. Save you. If you could tell me where—”

“Leveraging your own daughter’s life against her.” There wasn’t any disbelief at all in Yang’s voice. If anything, there was just…disappointment. A tinge of sadness. “That’s so like you.”

“Well. Confusing your loyalties, bringing that Grimm down on top of us…that wasn’t like you at all.” Raven’s own tone echoed Yang’s, bordering on pity. Though even Blake thought that she hadn’t earned the right to it. “That surprised me.”

“Guess you didn’t know me as well as you thought.”

“ _Know_ you—?” Raven stopped, realizing she’d spoken just a little too loud. “Yang…you must be forgetting something. When I found you, you had no idea who the hell you _were_. I gave you that, at the very least, something no one else could. What you are is what I gave you.”

That hung between them in the air for a long moment— _what you are is what I gave you_. The night was silent except for the broken chatter in the surrounding fringe of trees. Blake’s hand stilled and she leaned farther to the side, waiting for Yang to go on.

“It hasn’t, you know,” she said at last.

“Excuse me?”

“You asked me if the regret has sunk in yet. It hasn’t. Maybe it should have, but…I just can’t bring myself to regret it. Even now.”

Blake warmed to that, the tender, stubborn way she’d said it. She wished she could’ve seen what kind of expression Yang was making. (If Blake herself regretted anything at all in that moment, it was that.)

“The little thief sure has charmed you, hasn’t she? You used to be smarter than that. Did you think you’d be rewarded for it, choosing her? You won’t want to hear this, but someone like that—she’ll only bring you trouble. Trouble and pain, and empty hands.”

The twine finally snapped, and Blake slipped free of it, rubbing her wrists. She peered through the break in the tent flap, out into the rest of the sleeping camp, the shape of the tents dimly defined by starlight. Raven probably wasn’t wrong. Maybe that was another regret Blake had. Not being someone stronger, someone who could give Yang something good.

“I think it’s more like trouble always comes to us.” Blake imagined it clearly, the way Yang would probably smile here in the way that an animal bared fangs. “We’ve gotten out of worse situations.”

“Yang, I’m trying to give you a real chance, here—”

“And if I told you that I have no idea where they’re keeping the relics? Or where the _ring_ is? What then?” Blake held her breath, pulling the tarp back a little. “Still feel like you can afford to be forgiving?”

There was a soft rustle as if Raven had shifted her weight. Her words came tersely, nearly inaudible. “…Is that true?”

“It’d be pretty foolish to lie to you.”

“If it really is the truth, you’re even more of a fool for it.” Raven paused again. This time for so long that saying anything more felt almost redundant. “You said it yourself…that you’ve gotten out of worse. You said that yourself.”

“So that’s it, then.” Blake wondered why she didn’t get angry, why her voice was so calm, so unsurprised—why Blake felt like she was the only one quietly seething on Yang’s behalf. “You have nothing more to say to me.”

“You made your _choice_ , Yang.” And when Raven checked herself this time, it wasn’t the volume of her voice that brought her up short but the sudden intensity of it. The way it leaned halfway into an admission, into a weakness. “You made your choice,” she said again, and her voice had drained of all of it in an instant, every ounce of feeling. She was the ruthless bandit queen once more. “And I can’t save you from it this time.”

The tent rustled as Raven lifted the tarp to leave, but Yang’s voice stilled her:

“You know, I…I never wanted someone to save me. Or tell me who I was, or…” Yang’s voice trembled just a little and it was enough, somehow, to shatter Blake’s heart. That feeling was so much like a solid thing to Blake, a tangible thing, that a small, choked sound almost escaped her. She clamped a hand over her mouth as Yang exhaled deeply. “I didn’t want it,” she said, softly. “I just…wanted a mom.”

“That was Summer.” The reply came immediately, though not unkindly (not completely). Even someone like Raven, Blake thought. Even someone like that could feel the pull of remorse, for a moment. Could mourn the person they’d never been and would probably never become. “You know that much, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Blake heard Yang murmur, as if to herself. “I know.”

Blake stepped out of the darkness of her tent at the same time Raven did, her eyes catching first on the slumped figure of the guard on the ground before she lifted them to Raven, who had gone still, who was watching her in return. This wasn’t the place to make a scene, and Blake was without her weapon, but some part of her still itched for a rematch.

Raven straightened, her eyes flicking curiously to the shard of glass Blake still gripped in her palm. “Huh. If things were different, maybe I would’ve asked you to come work for me.”

Blake bit back the reply she was thinking of. “Doubt I would’ve accepted,” she said, curtly. “I’m not really much of a follower these days.”

Raven shook her head, chuckling softly. “And how’s being your own boss been treating you?” she asked, as if she couldn’t help rubbing it in. Her grin faded. “If you were smart, you’d use this opportunity to _run_ —get out of this gods-damned jungle. But something tells me you won’t. You’re shackled to that hopeless girl of mine. And for whatever reason, she’s fixed herself to you.”

_Shackled_. Maybe Raven wasn’t wrong in the end, that there really was something like that between them (strange as it was to admit)—something binding, way beyond aligning interests, beyond the words that could describe it.

But nobody had told her to stay with Yang as the Garuda’s venom ran its course. Nobody was telling her to stay _now_. And no one had told Yang to choose Blake over the Tribe, either, or swim down after her back at the Moon Gate. Adam had been a shackle. But Yang was something else. Always unfolding, showing her new sides—even of herself. It scared the hell out of her, but Blake wanted to see them all. She looked again at Raven and the recognition finally clicked.

“Gods, you’re so terrified of it,” she murmured.

Raven stared, impassive, but then the next moment, she shifted her weight, slowly folding her arms across her chest. “Of what, do you figure?”

“Giving a damn,” Blake said. “Caring. Being cared for. You’re so terrified of it you’d call it a _shackle_. You’ve killed _every_ part of yourself that could possible want it.”

Raven didn’t argue with her or berate her or even draw her sword and strike Blake down where she stood. She just smiled coldly at her, shifting between expressions as if she didn’t quite know which one to settle on.

Finally, she said, “I don’t think I have to explain this to _you_ , but…sometimes, that’s the only way you can live.”

There was no sting in it for Blake, the fact that she could understand that kind of thinking. It just made the fact that things hadn’t turned out differently…sadder, maybe. Just a little bit sadder. “ _Survive_ , you mean.”

“Don’t lecture me, child. Not until you’ve gotten as far as I have in this life.” She turned to leave, but something stopped her. Blake couldn’t see her face anymore, just the dark gleam of an eye. “You know, I think one of these days, I’d like to be proven wrong.”

Blake thought she understood that. Raven was too proud to say it, too practical and selfish to see to it herself, but Blake understood that as her way of saying: _Don’t let that hopeless girl of mine die_.

When Blake lifted the flap of Yang’s tent, everything within lit like a stage by lanternlight, she’d already been bracing herself for it. But nothing could’ve prepared her heart, really, for the moment when Yang lifted her head and Blake knew that what she could see wasn’t even the worst of it.

Yang’s eyes—or, the eye not partly swollen shut—widened. “ _Bla_ —?”

Blake darted the rest of the way into the tent, clamping her hand over Yang’s mouth. “Shh, Yang.”

Her hand lifted away, brushing Yang’s hair from the stickiness of her forehead, careful to avoid the splotchy bruise blooming just above her right eye. Her lip was split in the corner. There was blood in her teeth, blood dried across her chin.

Blake’s hand tightened painfully around the glass shard in her palm. She brought her forehead softly to Yang’s, barely a contact, quietly taking her in—her nose, her eyes, every edge of her—swallowing down that impossible tangle of fury and relief that had climbed into the back of her throat.

“Hey,” Yang whispered, bumping her forehead back against Blake’s, eyes gently probing. “Hey, I’m alright, I—gods, pull yourself together, chief. You’re embarrassing me.”

“ _Asshole_ ,” Blake retorted, but it was almost, or was halfway, a sob. She shifted back on her heels, reaching down to where Yang’s hands were tied to the post. “Hold on, I’m gonna cut you free. And then we’re getting the fuck _out_ of here.”

“Blake…”

“Just give me a second.”

“ _Blake_.” She hadn’t said it loudly, but she had put a little more force behind it, enough to make Blake stop for a moment and look up at her. “Breathe, alright? You might be shocked that _I’m_ the one saying this, but we need a plan right now. Our weapons—”

“I don’t know where Adam’s keeping those.” Blake went back to cutting the rope. “But you’ve got like, a shotgun in your arm, don’t you?”

Yang huffed out a laugh. “Ammo was taken along with the pack. It’s not even a flare gun right now.” She paused. “And the artifacts…”

“Don’t know where they’ve stashed those, either.”

“We’re doing great so far.”

Blake finally cut Yang free, and she pitched forward heavily onto her elbows, her head bowing toward her chest for a second. Blake, feeling somewhat useless, rubbed light circles between Yang’s shoulder blades. Though when Blake’s hand brushed lower, near her ribs, Yang winced. _Bastard_ , Blake thought, her anger returning. _That spineless bastard_.

Yang coughed, drawing herself upright again. “Blake, you know we can’t leave this camp.”

Of course she knew that. To stumble unarmed through a Grimm-infested forest in the dead of night, unarmed and _injured_ —and hunted by more than just the Grimm. Now that was stupid. Twisted as it sounded, being in Adam’s clutches was comparatively the safer option. At least until the sun rose.

So why couldn’t she make herself feel the truth of it? Why did all of that not fucking _matter_?

“I…don’t know how to get us out of this,” Blake found herself whispering. She slumped backward, sitting across from Yang in the glow of the tent, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Gods, the thought that we came this far just for Adam to…”

A warm hand slid beneath her own, quieting her. Yang lifted it between them, pressing her lips to the backs of her fingers. “Don’t you have a mission you need to see through?” she asked.

“You’ll…” Blake gripped Yang’s hand tighter, squeezed her eyes shut. “Yang, I don’t want you to die.” For some reason she couldn’t look at her as she said it. It was too _much_ , too real. It knocked the wind out of her. “If I see this through, you’ll die.”

“Eh, well. I can live with that.”

“This isn’t a joke—”

But she looked up at her again and Yang’s eyes weren’t joking. “Yeah. But I know your mind’s made up already.”

Blake couldn’t even tell her she was wrong. That girl from the market…Nilam, her small face, those swiveling, curious ears—Blake couldn’t stop picturing her, and then picturing the way Adam would level the rest of Kuo Kuana to ash if he had to. It wasn’t about Blake, what she wanted. And it wasn’t about Yang, either. It was about _them_ , everyone else. Kids asleep in their beds in the city who had no clue about the kinds of monsters there were in the jungle.

Blake stood, letting out a heavy breath. “We’ll figure a way out of this, Yang.”

Yang looked, at least, like she wanted to believe that. Or, maybe it was just that she believed in Blake. She tapped her own cheek, smiling in that soft, lopsided way of hers. “Kiss for good luck?”

Blake knelt down and kissed her on the mouth, muffling Yang’s noise of surprise. But it felt less like a kiss than…like Blake was soaking her in. Like when you felt that first chill in the air and you knew summer was ending. Yang returned it, her hand lifting, sliding into Blake’s hair, gently cupping the back of her head. Blake could still feel it under her palms, Yang’s heartbeat. Steady and strong. She rested her forehead on Yang’s shoulder and, wrapped up in her arms, figured she could absorb a little of that feeling herself.

That warmth, that sureness, couldn’t last—morning would come and make it all evaporate. But Blake clung to it as she untangled herself from Yang and left the tent, slipping back into the night.

And as it turned out, the spell was doomed to break even before sunrise. When Blake stepped back into the darkness of her own tent, Ilia was there. Waiting. Her eyes were tired. Everything about her, the way she stood, slouching back against the post, looked so tired. Not just because of the hour—it didn’t take a psychic to see that she’d been running on fumes for a long time.

But in her hand, she gripped Lightning Lash. She pushed off from the post, pointing it at Blake.

“I tried to tell him,” she said. “That he shouldn’t let you out of his sight. But Adam doesn’t always…listen to reason. Especially when you’re involved.”

Blake tensed, slowly raising her hands. “Ilia…you don’t have to do this. Go along with what he wants. You’re a _good person_ , but you’re—” Ilia flinched, barely perceptible but _there_ , and it made Blake bolder. She took a step toward her. “Adam’s not in this for the Faunus, or for equality, or— _anything_ except himself. If nobody stops him, he’ll drag Menagerie down into a kind of war that it’s never even seen before. Is that what you really _want_ …?”

Ilia’s hand lowered, her eyes falling away, and Blake took another step closer. She opened her mouth to say something else.

But then Ilia, with a sudden, sharp motion, whipped the ribbon-like blade of her weapon toward her. It wrapped around Blake’s wrist, sending a biting surge of electricity into her even more intense than the last one—straight through skin and blood and nerves. For a moment, Blake’s world went completely white and numb. She crashed to her knees, and Ilia put a boot to her shoulder, kicking her onto her back.

The last thing she saw before she blacked out ( _again_ , she thought, distantly, _this again_ ) was Ilia crouching over her. Her hand reached down toward Blake, but then it stilled, withdrawing, fingers curling slowly in the palm.

“You don’t get to come back and pretend like you give a damn about this place, about the _Faunus_ ,” Ilia hissed, but her voice was drifting further and further away from her, the sound of it pulling apart into pieces. “…Or about me.”

This time, the dark rose up to meet her faster than she was expecting, like the snap of a curtain.


	9. Wanderers

Her own hands came into focus first, swimming up slowly to her. Scraped, raw the wrists. There was a welt on her forearm from the whip, where the metal had cut into her. And then the violent motion of the truck registered, the way it shuddered under her feet, jostling her whenever they drove over especially rough terrain (which was often).

And then Ilia. Who was glaring at her from across the truck (one of those big canvas-backed ones, it looked like). It was probably past sunrise now, but it was hard to really say for sure. The branches that scraped by on either side made a kind of tunnel, cocooning them from the light.

Ilia’s weapon dangled from her hand still, though in its compacted form. “Morning,” she mumbled, shadows around her eyes.

“Where are we going?” Blake’s own voice came dryly, barely a croak, “Where’s Yang?”

“Is that mercenary the only thing that matters to you?”

“Ilia. Is she—?”

“She’s alive,” Ilia interrupted, her voice prickling with annoyance. “Okay? She’s fine. For now, at least.” But Blake could barely even feel relieved about that before she added, “She’s leading the convoy to the ring—or so she claims.”

Blake sat forward. “Yang is?”

“That was the deal she cut with Adam. He needs your expertise to know how to use those ‘keys’ you found, but he also needs someone who can lead him to the door.” Ilia clicked her tongue, leaning her elbows on her knees. “And he’s a real impatient bastard, so of course he agreed.”

“But—” Blake almost said it out loud. That Yang didn’t _know_ where the ring was. At least, that was what she’d thought, that neither of them had the answers. If Ilia knew that, though, it would just broadcast the fact that Yang was buying both of them time.

But if it was the truth, if she really _had_ figured it out, or she thought she had…then that would mean Yang given up that information to save them—her last bargaining chip. And if Yang was wrong, if she didn’t turn up results, then she would make herself expendable to Adam right away. That knowledge made numb panic press against the backs of Blake’s eyes.

She ignored Ilia’s curious look, turning her head toward the back of the truck, the jungle path visible over the hatch, sliding away from them like the back of a serpent.

“So…where are we right now?”

Ilia scoffed. “Lost, probably. No offense, but I don’t have a lot of faith in that human’s sudden _revelation_ about the ring.” Ilia was sharp, so there was a chance she’d already figured out what Yang was doing. Whatever her reasons, though, she seemed like she was going to keep that to herself. (Maybe she was just planning on biding her time until Adam’s patience ran out.) “Anyway, she mentioned something about…some mountain. We’ve already been out here all night, so if she doesn’t hurry up and _find_ the—”

“Wanderer’s Mountain,” Blake said. _Lost_ , Ilia had said. It had to be. “That’s where Yang’s taken us. A place from one of Matahari’s legends.”

“Didn’t think human mercenaries were so interested in Menagerian myths.”

Ilia hadn’t changed much, Blake thought, watching her gaze turn away, the way she irritably rubbed the knuckles of her own hand. What Adam was thinking, his anger—all of that felt unpredictable until it wasn’t, always seething in him as if the face Blake could see was just an illusion. As if the _real_ Adam was lying in wait beneath, was the dangerous thing pacing behind a fogged up wall of glass.

But Ilia? She had a different way of keeping things to herself. There were feelings, of course, that made themselves known whether she meant them to or not, but…maybe it was just that Ilia was always making choices against her own heart. Hiding herself in the cover of a cause, a warped sense of loyalty. And Blake was done with that, living that way.

She sat back, chewing the inside of her lip. Yang flashed in her mind’s eye, the bright smudge of her hair in the rising sun as she sat atop the Gate. “I guess she has a good memory.”

“You must have a poor one, then.” Ilia’s eyes suddenly fixed to her, the gray of them staining red. Her knuckles went bone-colored over the handle of Lightning Lash. “Did you forget already that people like that can’t be trusted?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Blake said, quietly. She felt surprisingly calm. She didn’t break Ilia’s stare. “Some things I try to forget, but…some things I can’t.”

Like how skin-and-bone Ilia had looked as a recruit. How small and young _both_ of them had looked, had _been_. How Ilia used to change colors in her sleep sometimes (a deep blue whenever she dreamed about Mantle). But Blake couldn’t forget Vale, either. How Ilia recoiling from her when she told her she was leaving the Fang had felt like a slap.

Deep down, she’d stopped blaming Ilia a long time ago for not leaving with her (no one sane would’ve gone with her, she knew that), but—Gods, the terror she’d felt then when she realized she would have to do it all alone. Get away from Adam, from Vale, find her way in a world filled with all kinds of monsters, all kinds of danger— _alone_. That she’d fled from one home and had abandoned all the others. There was no one. No one except (and here was the cruelest part of it, probably) herself.

Ilia flinched, seeming like she realized what Blake meant by it. “Well. I haven’t forgotten, either.”

“You could’ve come with me,” Blake said, almost without meaning to. “That night I left.”

“No, I _couldn’t_ have, Blake.” Ilia’s retort was immediate, almost a snarl. “Did you really expect me to—to turn my back on everything just because you asked me to? Abandon the people who took me in when I had _nothing_?”

“People like _Adam_ , you mean?” Blake demanded, starting to rise from her seat. But Ilia shot up first, the point of her blade unfolding in a snap, hovering inches from Blake’s face. Blake slowly sat down again, but her gaze didn’t waver. “…People who would _kill_ you before they’d ever let you leave?”

The gap in Ilia’s armor finally took shape. Her blade lowered, just a hair. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t know. Blake realized that just looking at Ilia’s expression, the frozen shock in it. She didn’t have any idea what had happened to Blake after they’d argued that night. That Adam had caught onto her plans. That he’d waited for her at the base of the mountain, just like the two of them had waited for the pheasant that cold dusk on the hill in Anima.

Blake swallowed, speaking carefully, “Adam, he…he ambushed me.”

“No, no, that _can’t_ …” Ilia’s spun away from Blake. “Adam sent out a search party that morning when he found out you were gone. He drove himself crazy worrying about you—”

“It was a lie,” Blake interrupted, quietly. “He was covering up what he’d done. He…probably thought I was dead.”

And Blake nearly _had_ died—if not from blood loss, then from exposure to the biting mountain air. Sometimes she wondered how she’d even survived that night to begin with. That night and countless other nights, she should’ve died and she hadn’t. She doubted anyone could tell her the reason for it.

One way or another, she’d lived. And she’d found her way back to Menagerie in the way that shells were drawn inevitably back into the tide. She could probably admit at this point that she’d survived this long in the Heart half due to her own stubbornness, and half because of Yang. Because Yang had been there. Even now, Blake felt antsy that Yang wasn’t somewhere she could see.

“Ilia…” Blake considered showing her the scar, but she didn’t think she needed to. Whether Ilia wanted to admit it aloud or not, she believed her. She believed that Adam was capable of something like that. “I know you think this is the only way. That turning on Adam is the same as turning on the Faunus—” Ilia started to pace away from her, but Blake stood, catching her wrist. It was a dangerous move, but at least Ilia didn’t lash out right away. Gray eyes fell and stilled on Blake’s hand. “But Adam turned on the Faunus _first_. It doesn’t even matter if he finds anything out here or not, he’ll just figure out another way to finance his war. And when he does? He’ll turn that destruction on Menagerie, on _innocent people_ , and call himself a savior for it.”

Blake didn’t know why she wanted so badly to get through to her, or why, after everything, Ilia could still break her heart as much as she did. Part of it was guilt, maybe. Sometimes she regretted not trying harder to convince Ilia to leave, especially seeing her now, seeing how things were tearing her apart in two directions. And Adam was impatient, just like she’d said; the longer this campaign of his dragged on without Adam getting what he wanted, the less anyone could convince him of their usefulness to him.

Then the other part of it must’ve been her good memory. Blake couldn’t forget who they’d been, she and Ilia, two lost, angry kids who’d only had each other, who’d sometimes made pockets of light out of the darkness.

Blake’s other hand came up slowly, almost touching the back of Ilia’s shoulder, but then Ilia flinched, seeming to snap out of her trance. She turned and shoved Blake roughly back into the seat, her look of resentment—and the blade of her sword—returning as quickly as if it’d never left.

“You’re nobody’s savior, either, Blake,” Ilia snapped, closing in. “You _left_ us. _Me_. And now you’re trying to come back and act like a _hero_?”

“I’m trying to do something _right_ ,” Blake said, feeling anger of her own still burning, still folding and unfolding in her chest. Not at Ilia. At herself. “I’m so… _tired_ of it, being scared. I’ve been scared almost all my life, I think. But this is something I have to do. This is one thing I can’t walk away from.”

Mazu and the careless fisherman surfaced for a moment in Blake’s mind. That familiar story about regret, things that couldn’t be undone. But the story hadn’t seemed so sad to her in the past as it seemed to her now. She found herself wondering if that had been the only way—if the fisherman throwing himself into the sea had been the only way that story could’ve ended.

Whatever Ilia saw in Blake’s expression in that moment, she looked taken aback by it. She opened her mouth to say something, but then the truck came to a sudden halt, almost pitching her off her feet. Blake braced herself against the bench.

Ilia growled, banging the butt of her weapon against the front of the truck bed with a loud, metallic clang. “Why have we stopped?”

A soldier came around and unbolted the hatch. Blake caught the rustle of bat wings as the back creaked open and felt herself grimace. Yuma. He’d been a real thorn in her side back when they’d been in the Fang together. Or maybe that was putting it too lightly; he’d been more like a schoolyard bully. As eager to curry favor with the strong as he was to stomp on the weak.

And, of course, though he’d never admitted to it out loud, Yuma had always resented Blake’s pack status. Adam’s extra attention and training, his hunting lessons far from camp, the way he was always watchful of her—all of these Yuma saw as nothing more than special treatment wasted on some stubborn child who came to them practically begging for purpose. He’d never known, or cared to know, just how much that attention had felt more like a curse than anything else in the last few months Blake had been with them.

Yuma’s gaze slid to hers, half entertained. Half not. “Path’s too narrow,” he said, cheerfully training his gun on Blake. “Looks like we’re hoofing it the rest of the way. Hope that won’t be an inconvenience, Your Highness.”

Blake cocked a brow at him. “I see Adam’s still using you as his messenger boy,” she said, forcing herself to sound bored. Though she felt her body tense when he slammed the sole of his boot against the step.

Ilia sighed and cut in between them. “Let’s just get this over with.” She hopped down from the truck, forcing Yuma back a few paces. “Your mercenary better know where she’s going.”

Blake followed, evading Yuma’s unfriendly stare, stepping around to catch a glimpse of the front of the convoy. She couldn’t see Yang, not yet. But she saw something else, folded away in the undergrowth: the brightness of flowers, their long plumes dripping down like wax. Blake tracked that red color down the path and thought of the glow of torches in a tunnel. Amaranth. Yang must’ve seen it and remembered what it meant.

Blake’s expression stilled, but she felt her heartbeat in her palms as her fingers curled over them. “Maybe she does.”

~

That particular part of the story had always surprised her. The part where Matahari fled the palace in the night, grief-stricken, sowing flowers in the mountainside with her tears. It didn’t sound like the other stories she’d heard. In all the others, Matahari never hid or ran from anything. Blake couldn’t help but wonder if she disappeared in every telling, or if there was one version of it where she stayed, where she argued before the palace court, or before the Gods themselves. She couldn’t help but think that Ancient Menagerie’s warrior-princess of legend would’ve had more fury than what the stories told.

Though it was true that either way, there was no changing the way things had played out. The transgression, the price. That almost seemed like the most tragic part of it, that there would be no story without the martyr. Bulan had to die, and Matahari had to end the world to bring them back. History, myths, stories—it was just an endless losing and taking. That was probably all there was.

Yuma put the barrel of his gun between Blake’s shoulder blades and shoved her forward. “Keep up. Don’t wanna get left behind in this place.”

Ilia, walking slightly ahead, seemed to stiffen. For the first time, Blake noticed Gambol Shroud slung across her back. “This part of the jungle really gives me the creeps. Where the hell are the Grimm?”

“Hiding, maybe…waiting until one or two of us gets separated from the rest of the group,” Blake guessed, looking around. With the way the trees curled above them, the way their twisting branches interlaced, she still had a feeling like they were in a tunnel. Or like some kind of pressure cooker, the humidity pressing down on them like a steel lid. Blake felt flyaway hairs clinging stickily to the back of her neck as she trudged behind Ilia on the path. “Some of them, at least, have learned to be patient like that. It’d be a bad idea to let your guard down.”

Yuma prodded her again with the gun. “Good to see we’re on the same page.”

Blake ignored him, jogging closer to Ilia, pitching her voice low. “What really happened after you knocked me out? Yang, did she…is she—?”

She blew out a sharp breath like a laugh. “What makes you think this is the time to interrogate me about that? I already told you she’s fine.”

Annoyance pulsed through her. “Well, sorry, is there something _else_ that we should be talking about as you march me to my death?”

“How about _nothing_?” Ilia snapped, half-turning her head to the side to glare at Blake. Though the next moment, she sighed, tugging a hand through her hair, something in her relenting. “You know, it still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Blake swallowed. “What doesn’t?”

“You could’ve left.” At her side, her hand tightened on the grip of her weapon. “You could’ve slipped out of camp before anyone even noticed. But you wasted your shot on that mercenary. It’s all so… _stupid_. It’s not like you at all.”

“I…” Blake watched Ilia for a moment, the way she kept her shoulders so still as she marched on ahead. “I couldn’t just _leave_ her.”

“You didn’t seem to have any doubts like that about leaving the Fang,” Ilia replied, dryly. She stared ahead, not once looking back again at Blake.

“I did about leaving _you_ behind,” Blake said, softly. And Ilia still didn’t turn, but her head bowed slightly. That was what she used to do, Blake remembered, when she didn’t want to show her feelings. She would look at the ground and bite the inside of her cheek. Maybe that was why Blake felt especially unkind when she added, in a stronger voice, “But you left me first. I…I wanted you to choose me, and you didn’t. And I don’t blame you for that, but that doesn’t mean I have to just sit here and accept all the blame, either.”

Ilia suddenly aimed high and to the right, picking off a Shrieker scuttling in the trees, the singular, gleaming eye trained on Blake, who was still unarmed. Its spiny, primate-like body thumped against the jungle floor and disintegrated. A few feet behind, Yuma made a noise of disgust.

“Reckless _and_ selfish,” Ilia sighed, her arm lowering to her side again. Though there was no actual feeling, or bite, left in her voice when she said that. “And what if I told you that human didn’t put up a fight for you at all back at the camp? That she let both of you get led away up this mountain, and that both your lives are hanging on _her_ empty promise right now? Still feel like you made the right choice?”

Blake walked on for a moment, watching the pinpricks of light through the latticework of branches above. “You shouldn’t underestimate her,” Blake said, a small grin lifting the corners of her lips. She felt the feathery brush of amaranth against her arm as she passed (more and more had started to appear on the trail). “Yang’s more patient than you seem to think she is. Smarter, too.”

Suddenly, Blake could see the other soldiers up ahead, some kind of stir rippling among them. Ilia ran up to one of them, turning him sharply to her. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

When he spoke, Blake caught the dull glint of large fangs like a tiger’s. “The human found something. Some kind of huge relief in the mountain.”

The path further up ahead spilled down into a long ravine, rocks sticking up sharply in every direction like the quills on the back of a Boarbatusk. And at the base of the jagged slope, there was an enormous, circular carving—like a seal on the world.

The heel of Blake’s boot slipped in the mud as she stepped off the path, and she almost stumbled. “ _Gods_ ,” she breathed, staring up at it.

Though it wasn’t the Gods she saw. Through the layer of moss and vines crawling up the stone, Blake could make out the shape of bird’s wings, a broken staff. The sun rose over a mountain, or maybe it was setting. Along the edge of the circle, the moon waxed and waned. Two figures in the center reached toward each other across the relief, their hands nearly touching—a long-pointed star between their fingertips. Matahari on one side, Bulan on the other.

But even more than the depiction of the lovers themselves, what drew her attention was the fact that within the larger circle, there was a smaller one, slightly raised. And it wasn’t stone, but some kind of metal, badly tarnished, though spots of gold still caught and glittered in the light. The star and the reaching hands were contained within it. A ring.

Blake’s eyes fell back to the ravine. Adam was at the front of the throng, a smirk growing on his face as he stared up at the relief. Soldiers moved out of Blake’s line of sight and suddenly there was _Yang_ right at the center of everything—the wild gold of her hair, the strong, stubborn set of her shoulders. She was already looking back at her. Even from where she was standing, Blake could see the shadows of unease all across her face. Shadows beneath those wide, violet eyes. In daylight, the split lip and the bruises stood out even harsher against her skin.

But she offered Blake a weak smile anyway, raising her hand in a half-salute. Somehow, Blake understood the meaning of it even without words: _Stay sharp, chief. This is where it really begins._


	10. Falling Star

Down in the ravine, the ground between the sharp outcrops was soft, almost spongy, beneath her feet. Like it’d give at any moment.

Ilia led Blake down toward the stone relief, down to where Adam stood in front of it. She passed Yang, who was still watching her with that unsettled expression. Blake wanted to take her hand more than anything. She thought about saying something to her but was pushed along before she could, and suddenly Adam was right in front of her, looking downright cheerful.

“Well, if it isn’t our expert, right on time. Looks like your mercenary’s worth something after all.” He grabbed her arm, pitching her forward. “Go on, then. Show us how it works.”

She righted herself, turning to him. “I need the relics.”

“Do you now?” Adam said, with a slow tilt of his head.

“If this is really the entrance to a vault of some kind, or a tomb,”—Blake did her best to push out of her mind that it could become her own—“then it’s hard to imagine the Ancients leaving the door to something so valuable unlocked.”

Adam rubbed his chin and seemed to consider her blankly a moment longer before he shrugged, waving Ilia over without even turning to her. “Give them to her.”

Ilia stepped up in front of her, pulling the two statues from her pack. (She still had Gambol on her, too.) Blake had to swallow down her surprise as she took them from her. Maybe Adam really did trust Ilia that much. Maybe he really thought there was no way that Ilia would ever betray him. But Blake wondered if he’d tasked her with their possession because it was the cruelest option. They were part of what was keeping Blake alive, after all. Ilia had probably had them on her the whole time. If she’d wanted to betray Adam last night, she could’ve done it. It was the same as if he’d handed her the bullets to an empty gun.

Ilia bent her head close for a moment. “Don’t try to do anything careless here,” she murmured. And she melted back into the crowd without saying anything more.

It was strange, though. With everything that hung in the balance, their weight in Blake’s palms felt the same as she remembered. She stared at them, and then she stepped back, holding them up against the towering image of the relief. That was strange, too. Bulan’s staff was broken in the mural, but it didn’t look like wear and tear. It looked intentional. Blake couldn’t think of any stories that could explain something like that.

But the strangest thing of all, once she looked a little closer, were the hands. Something looked off about them, their alignment with the rest of the mural. Blake shifted closer, brushing her fingers against the raised stone, and then against the cold metal of the ring, wiping away some moss and grime. When her hand came away, that was when she saw the writing etched faintly into the gold.

Behind her, Adam made a noise of impatience. “Please tell me you’re not stalling, Blake.” She caught Adam’s hand in the corner of her eye, twitching toward the sword at his hip. “Because if you’re not the expert you’re cracked up to be, I can always find someone else.”

He was bluffing—for now. Blake knew he was. But the threat, spoken so simply, so offhandedly, still sent a chill through her. She steeled herself and turned to face him, carefully pocketing the statues. “I don’t suppose you know anyone else who could translate the Old Language for you?”

Adam stiffened, just slightly. Blake guessed she had something to thank her father for, after all. Her mind, the fascination that had drawn her to the cool dark of his study every time he was away, she’d gotten from him.

And she rarely admitted this to herself, but she’d absorbed all there was to know about the Ancients partly just to feel closer to him. He was gone, the Ancients were all gone, but there were some things, at least, that remained. Invisible threads that bound all the uncrossable boundaries together, even the living and the dead. Blake had always preferred to think that things in the world didn’t really disappear so much as they just took on new shapes. Even the Ancients.

She didn’t wait for Adam to answer her. She touched the heavy circle of metal again, clearing away more from the surface, careful not to scratch the thin characters. This was the first time she’d stumbled on any kind of writing in the Heart. That, alone, told her something about the importance of the site. She grunted, gingerly putting her foot into a groove in the mural and hefting herself up to reach the top of the ring to wipe away the rest.

“What are you doing?” Adam took a step toward her, and Blake could almost see his confidence start to waver. Something slipping, like he’d finally started to realize he was out of his depth.

Blake raised herself up completely by another groove, clinging to the space in between the metal and the stone. She stifled the urge to let her gaze wander out over the crowd, find Yang among them. Just knowing she was there, though, that she was listening, watching, somehow gave Blake some clarity. “There’s an inscription.” She gestured with her free hand. “If the Ancients went to the trouble to write us a message here, we’d be pretty foolish to ignore it.”

Ideally, she’d want hours the examine it. Days, even, to fully sift through the meaning. Translation was never a simple thing, but this was a language that no one had spoken in a thousand years. There were meanings for words that the Ancients had written down that they had taken to the grave with them, that no one alive could ever entirely understand. There were all kinds of ways that things could be misread.

Blake traced the delicate, looping characters, feeling the shapes with her fingertip. Not everything was completely legible, though she doubted Adam was feeling generous enough to give her even a fraction of the time she needed. “This one is the word for ‘moon,’” she said, pointing to the top of the disk. “And this one,”—she pointed to the bottom—“‘sun.’ Looking at the mural, though, it’s probably meant to be read metaphorically: Bulan and Matahari.”

When Adam only slowly folded his arms and went silent, Ilia cleared her throat, peering closer. “But how does knowing that that help us?”

Blake jumped down from the wall, landing softly in the grass. “Well, the beginning of the inscription has the words for ‘unbind’—as in something being released—‘dusk,’ and ‘eternal.’ So, if I had to make sense of it together, there’s some kind of…endless twilight. But I don’t know what that could mean. Or what’s being unbound.”

“So you have nothing.” Adam, finally losing any show of patience he had, uncrossed his arms and strode toward her, looming dangerously close in an instant. “You’re just wasting my time.”

She raised an arm between them, but he grabbed her wrist, squeezing painfully, his fingers pressing down on the wound from Kuo Kuana. Blake hissed softly but didn’t cry out, didn’t freeze.

“I’m not finished.” She jerked her wrist out of Adam’s grasp. “The rest of the inscription might interest you.” His lip twitched, as if something about her reaction had caught him off-guard, but his arm lowered to his side again. He leaned back on his heels. Blake gestured to the mural, her hand surprisingly steady (though her heart was loud in her ears like a drum). “One part of it talks about an endless twilight, some kind of unbinding, but the other part? It has the words for ‘restore,’ as in back to health, or something mended, and then…‘ring.’”

A clear and immediate stir moved through everyone within earshot, like fire catching in a dry field. Even Adam seemed unsettled, shifting his weight, taking a few steps backward, craning his head to look up at the relief again. “This place, then,” he murmured, rubbing his jaw. “It has to be here.”

Suddenly, over his shoulder, Yang appeared again, the sight of her eclipsing everything else. She was still standing at the center of the throng, still with that stubborn tilt of her chin, her bloodied shirt. She noticed Blake’s eyes on her (of course she did, Blake thought, and then wondered why she was so certain of that) and nodded, barely perceptible.

“But…” Adam’s voice, the coldness of it, the hardness of his expression, came into sharp focus. “How does it open? The door to our vault?”

Blake reached into her pocket to find cold metal. “The relics—”

“You said that already, didn’t you?” he interrupted, his voice rising. “That they’re keys. But if you’re so sure you’re right about that, show us how they _work_.”

She pressed back against the stone, her hands curling tightly around the statues. “I—”

“We need to turn it.”

Everyone turned to the source of that sudden voice, Adam included. Yang was at the front of the crowd now, straining against the soldiers who were trying to push her back. Adam watched her for a moment, like how you’d keep a careful eye on a biting insect. There was plain disgust, but there was also something about her that seemed to put him on-edge. “Come again, mercenary?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to prove your use.”

Yang looked to Blake, gesturing to the mural. “Blake, you saw it, too, right? The placement of the hands is wrong. There’s something off about it.”

Blake looked again. The flaw in the alignment was subtle, nearly invisible, but Yang was right. There was something _off_ —something that wasn’t accidental. “We need to _turn_ it,” she murmured. She turned back, casting her voice louder. “The center of the mural. We need to turn it—to change the position of the hands. So that Matahari’s palm faces downward, and Bulan’s faces upward.”

Adam laughed, though it was halfway through his teeth. “If this is another attempt at buying yourself time, it’s a pretty flimsy one, Blake.” But then he brought his hands abruptly together, the sound echoing throughout the ravine. “Let’s be quick with it.”

Blake, almost unconsciously, found Yang’s gaze again. Yang started to take a step toward her, but a soldier beside her in the crowd caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, wheeling and striking the butt of his gun between her shoulder blades. Yang let out a gasp, collapsing to one knee, catching herself on her hands.

“Where do you think you’re going, human?” he snapped.

Blake stumbled forward. “Wait— _stop_. Don’t hurt her—”

Adam moved between them, his head tilted in a way that cast strange shadows across his bone-white mask. “Stay focused.” He spoke low, like it was just a simple piece of advice. “That human’s making you forget yourself.”

Blake wondered why it was her own memory kept coming into question. She didn’t think her mind was the thing that was wrong. It was the image they’d had of her. It was the way they’d only ever seen her shadow on the wall. “Oh, believe me, I’m plenty focused right now.” She forced herself to say it as evenly as possible. “But that stone is too heavy for one person to move on their own. Unless you’re volunteering yourself?”

He sneered. “Nice try, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.” _You already have_ , Blake thought of telling him. He’d done that a long time ago. Long before Vale, even. Adam jerked his head in Yang’s direction. “You’re the hired muscle, aren’t you?”

Yang stood, slowly, her hands flexing and unflexing at her side. Blake was reminded of when Yang had stared him down in that penthouse office in Kuo Kuana. The danger and the fire that had rolled off of her in waves. That was nothing compared to now. She opened her mouth to say something.

“Yang,” Blake quickly interrupted, drawing her attention. Something told her that letting the moment drag out too long, letting Yang say what she wanted to say to him, would end badly. She just got that feeling, premonition-like. “Let’s just finish this. Okay?”

Yang spared one last look of contempt for Adam before she passed him, gripping the side of the wheel opposite from Blake. “Alright, chief,” she murmured, just for Blake.

The stone was nearly too heavy even for two people. Beside Blake, Yang grunted, a vein appearing at her throat, the muscles in her forearms, her shoulders, straining as the piece of the mural started to slowly turn under their hands, metal scraping against the groove. Sweat beaded up on Blake’s neck, made her palms start to go slick against the lip of the ring. She wiped them on her shirt and began again, nodding to Yang, who, stretching herself high, gave it one, last decisive turn. It clicked into place, sinking into the rest of the mural.

Stepping back, Blake took in the entire picture once more, noticing the way Bulan, from the angle of their body, seemed to be rising up through the air, the way Matahari descended. “Of course,” she breathed. “They’re reaching for each other.”

The lovers of legend, reaching across high and low, sky and earth, light and darkness. Defying the misaligned fates they’d been dealt (maybe that was why they’d lived for so long in Menagerie’s memory). They knew those lines, those uncrossable boundaries, were imagined to begin with. They were a beautiful permeation—two halves of the same circle, bleeding into each other like ink.

There were sounds from deep within the relief, and then, two pieces of it, like the tiles at the bottom of the Moon Gate, revolved in place, revealing twin, shallow hollows in the spaces between the lovers’ hands. And inside those hollows, indents like they’d seen before, star shapes. Blake pulled the statues from her pocket, holding them up for Yang to see.

Yang nodded, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “Look at that, keys. Just like you said. I don’t know how you do it.” There was the barest hint of a smile on her face. “Between us, we make it look too easy.”

Blake wanted to believe that. But she also doubted that this was the part that was supposed to be hard (if the literal writing on the wall was any indication). This was the beginning of the trial, the part where they held their breath and went under—and hoped they could find the surface again. Yang had to know that, though. For Blake’s sake, she was just putting on a brave face again.

She handed Bulan to Yang, keeping the Sun Gate relic for herself. “Give this to Matahari for me.” Yang took it from her, folding it gently into her palm. “I’ll say when, and we’ll turn them to the left at the same time.”

“Hold it,” Adam said, and when Blake looked over her shoulder at him, he seemed to be slowly shifting his gaze between the two of them, his frown deepening by the second. Blake wondered what it was he saw, what made him look so deeply irritated. “What if you’re wrong? How do you know you don’t have it backwards?”

“If I’m wrong…I don’t know that we’d get a second chance at it.” That only seemed to put him more on edge, but truthfully, it hadn’t even crossed her mind that she could have it wrong. It seemed like the only answer. There was a small light in darkness, small darkness in light. Matahari had learned all kinds of things from Bulan, and Bulan themself had changed because of Matahari. The lovers carried pieces of each other within themselves. Blake set the statue into the groove. “I guess you’re just going to have to wait and see what happens.”

Yang did the same with her own relic, and by her expression, Blake could see that she hadn’t had any doubts, either. “One day he’ll learn not to underestimate you,” Yang murmured.

That was one thing, at least, that Blake wasn’t holding her breath for. “Counterclockwise, on my call,” she said. “And…now.”

They twisted the relics to the left and, the next moment, the statues disappeared completely into the relief with a snap—like how thrown stones sunk down beneath the still surface of a lake, lost to the dark.

They sprung back from the wall, exchanging a glance. Yang scratched her neck. “Was that supposed to happen?”

Blake opened her mouth to reply to that but was interrupted by a dull rumbling beneath the soles of her feet, faint at first but growing stronger every instant. She knelt, laying her palm flat against the dirt. “Do you…feel that?”

Yang’s brow furrowed. “Think we pissed someone off downstairs?”

Adam was glancing around the ravine almost wildly as the thundering sound rose to a deafening pitch. “What did you _do_?” he shouted, his attention returning to Blake. He took a step toward her.

Blake stood, instinctively reaching over her shoulder for Gambol before remembering that Ilia still had it. “I—”

She couldn’t even answer him before the ground in front of the relief crumbled away, yawning pitch-black beneath her. Yang reached for her, grabbing her arm, but was only dragged down along with her.

They fell, down toward an end Blake couldn’t see, and all she could think about as she looked up and saw the earth close, saw the sky get shut away, was that fisherman from the story. She wondered if he’d felt like this when he’d jumped into the sea. When all he could do was plunge down into the dark and wait for the part that would come next.

~

“Blake… _Blake_.” There was a voice in her ear, ragged in the throat, thin with panic. “Hey—Blake? Come on, please wake up.”

Blake opened one eye and then the other, squinting against a white glare. The rest all around her was darkness. Through the harshness of the light, though, she started to make out the shape of a face, the shine of eyes. “Yang…?”

“Thank the Gods,” Yang sighed, her breath coming out in a rush. She pulled Blake close in a sudden embrace, her palm carefully cupping the back of Blake’s head. The arms around her were careful, too—though they trembled slightly. “Thought I lost you there, chief.”

The rest of her senses were slowly seeping back into her. Blake’s arm came up around Yang’s shoulders. She sunk into the hug for a moment, closing her eyes. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, Xiao Long.”

The light had disappeared when Yang had pulled her in, though it reappeared in Yang’s hand—her flashlight—when she released Blake and helped her fully sit up. “Yeah, you’re…” Yang sighed again, rubbing her face with her hand. “Sorry, I’ll have a clever comeback in a second. It’s just, uh…it’s good to have you back.”

Blake reached up, touching her fingertips to Yang’s cheek. Yang stiffened slightly at first, like she was surprised, but then she leaned into it. “We’re in this together, remember?” Blake offered a small smile.

“Right.” Yang’s answering smile was immediate, blinding even in the dark. “And, hey,” she added, her grin turning softly teasing (a side of her that was almost familiar to Blake by now), “I didn’t even have to kiss you this time around.”

“…Shut up.” Blake pressed her hands to Yang’s shoulders, shoving her backwards, though Yang was laughing. She rose shakily to her feet, Yang, who put a steadying hand against Blake’s back, along with her. Brushing dust and debris from her clothes, she took out her own flashlight and craned her head to look above them, trying to catch a glimpse of the place they’d fallen from. All she saw were deep shadows and the hollow shape of the cavern. “Where do you think we are right now?”

“I don’t know,” Yang said, sweeping the beam of her flashlight around them. “Uh, what kind of stories do Menagerians have about the underworld…?”

“They don’t,” Blake murmured, though looking around them, it was hard to argue that they hadn’t ended up in a place like that, after all. “I wonder if this is another one of the Ancients’ trials.”

The light caught on something iridescent beneath their feet. Gemstones, patterned tiles, spiraling out across the cavern floor, leading toward—Blake raised her flashlight—an exit. Some sort of tunnel, though it didn’t seem like a natural opening. Blake started toward it, wordlessly signaling Yang to follow.

“Falling down a dark hole, check. Random passageway, check,” Yang muttered, close on Blake’s heels. “I’m starting to think the Ancients weren’t very original, after all.”

Blake touched the archway, feeling its smoothness under her hand. “It feels more like…things are repeating. Like they’re cyclical.”

Even the kaleidoscopic tiles, she noticed, made perfect, overlapping circles. Though when she shone the light on the wall of the tunnel, she felt a soft gasp escape her. There was something like an alcove there, where a section of the tunnel sunk in slightly deeper, arched at the top. Inside it was another mural, though not one carved from the stone, but formed out of glittering gemstone tiles.

Blake brought her flashlight close, the beam scattering across a kneeling figure, the cat-shaped eyes. It was Bulan, though missing most of their usual identifiers—the staff, the patterned hood. They kneeled before the two faceless figures descending toward them, hands outstretched, pointing. The Gods.

Yang whistled, brushing dust from the center of the mural, revealing the silvery shine of a six-pointed star. “Bulan and the Gods. It’s…a little bit like the relief from earlier.”

Blake couldn’t really agree. Aside from the positioning, the star, the feeling was entirely different. There was something unsettling, almost ominous, about the image in front of them now. “This looks like the moment when Bulan was chosen to serve them.”

Blake didn’t have much time to wonder about it before Yang’s hand fell from the mural to the part of the alcove that formed a slight lip. She started, her fingertips coming away glistening. “What the hell…?” She rubbed them together. “Oil?”

“What do you mean?” Blake shone her light on the raised part of the tunnel wall, noticing the rut that ran along it, the gleam of some substance within.

Yang stooped down suddenly, retrieving a jagged stone from the cavern floor. She struck it sharply against her prosthetic arm, drawing sparks. The oil ignited and, in an instant, a thin line of fire spread down the length of the tunnel, illuminating the murals. Illuminating Yang’s own pleased expression as she turned back to Blake, tossing the rock in her hand.

“Ever-resourceful,” Blake observed, raising a brow.

Yang threw the rock aside with a wink. “You’d be lost without me.”

“Like you wouldn’t have been gobbled up by the Naga a long time ago without me,” Blake said, rolling her eyes. She turned, starting off down the passageway. “Come on. Let’s see where this leads us.”

Though as they followed the dim glow of the fire, as they passed more of the alcoves, more scenes of the Gods and Bulan, a strange dread began to seep into her. Or maybe _dread_ wasn’t exactly the word for it—she felt a pang in her chest, hollow-feeling, like a thing with small claws burrowing into her, when she realized what was missing.

Yang seemed to notice it, too. She shone her light on the opposite wall and, finding it empty, turned back to the mural. Bulan again, alone against a murky background, their image split in two by the silver staff. “Where’s…Matahari?”

If this was Bulan’s origin story, the way they’d seen Matahari’s on the Sun Gate, then it was hard to imagine why she hadn’t made an appearance yet. Blake didn’t know how long, exactly, they’d been following the tunnel deeper into the mountain, but it felt like they’d passed at least a dozen murals without catching even a glimpse of Bulan’s fabled lover. Maybe more.

They passed a few more similar scenes, Bulan hardly changing at all between them, and Blake stopped, touching the empty space around the figure. Shadowy shapes filled the backdrop, indistinct, like how clouds looked around the moon. Or like a landscape painted in dusk.

Blake sighed, her frustration started to get to her. “Do you think this is what the inscription meant by ‘endless twilight’…?” It was impossible to tell how much time was passing between each scene, and maybe that was the true source of it, the unease she felt unfolding in her.

“Dunno…” Yang murmured, wandering past. “But, hey, look—finally got to the part where they meet. After walking for like, a hundred years.”

Blake walked over to look at it, brushing shoulders with Yang. Sure enough, there was Matahari, at the top of a long staircase—probably the steps of the palace—her hand outstretched toward Bulan, her wings unfurled, sunstone crown shimmering. Bulan’s head was bowed, lips not quite touching the back of Matahari’s hand, as etiquette dictated.

She blinked, suddenly remembering what she’d been meaning to ask. “How did you know to go to Wanderer’s Mountain? That we’d find a place like this here? Was that just a lucky guess?”

Yang scratched her head. “Can’t say that luck wasn’t a part of it, but…” She looked at Blake, firelight reflecting in her eyes. “I guess it’s like you said. It’s cyclical. The image of the mountain…that was there, at the top of the Sun Gate. I never really found a good time to tell you about it.”

“She went back to Wanderer’s Mountain?” They walked on, passing scenes of the lovers they already half-recognized—like Bulan teaching Matahari about magic, drawing glowing symbols in the air.

Yang nodded. “They went there together. The last part of it was Matahari,”—Yang mimicked the pose, cupping her raised palms around an invisible object—“holding the ring.”

“Matahari must’ve came back because she knew they could hide here,” Blake said, trailing her hand on the wall. “She was one of the few who had ever made it out. She knew no one would go looking for them here.”

They stopped at the final image, the end of the tunnel, the two of them observing it in silence for a moment. Matahari was sinking down toward Bulan, wings gently enveloping them. Her hands, just as Yang had mimed it, cupped the golden circle. It hung suspended directly over Bulan, whose eyes were closed, their staff in two pieces at their feet—though Blake supposed that was fitting, as a symbol of lost status. The price Bulan had to bear for their disobedience, the loss of their connection to the Gods. But…

“They didn’t show the moment where Bulan was killed,” Blake murmured, speaking her thoughts aloud. “It’s almost like that part was left out on purpose. Like it never even happened.”

Yang shone her flashlight down the way they came. “That doesn’t make any sense, though. Why leave out Bulan’s death but keep the part where Matahari brings them back to life?”

Yang was right, of course. It didn’t make any sense at all. Blake squinted at the mural, taking in the landscape, how the lovers were backlit by the hazy red-orange of the rising sun, a bright horizon, the jungle that fringed the scene brought into sharp focus. Quite a stark contrast to the gloomy twilight scenes at the beginning.

Suddenly, there was a distant sound like an explosion, the ground trembling faintly beneath their feet—like the flutter of a pulse in the earth.

Blake whirled to it, her mouth going dry. “That sounded like it came from back that way.”

Yang’s eyes went hard. “Sounds like Adam’s going for something a little less subtle.” She clicked her tongue. “Bastard. He’ll draw the Grimm right to us.”

“Then we can’t afford to waste any more time.” Blake grabbed Yang’s hand, leading her down the long, narrow stepwell at the end of the passageway.

That comment Yang had made before, about this place feeling like an underworld, was only feeling more and more fitting. They were back to navigating the way through the mountain just by the weak glow of flashlights. Blake probably would’ve lost her nerve down here a long time ago without the press of Yang’s hand in hers, without that tethering warmth.

Blake led the way, and her eyes could see farther ahead, so she saw it before Yang—the soft natural light at the end of the stepwell.

When they finally emerged into that light, Blake shielded her eyes from the brightness, finding her gaze drawn higher and higher, her neck craning to catalogue the full height of the cavern walls, towering and dome-like, the vegetation that seemed like it was bursting out of the seams of the limestone.

She followed it all the way up to the source of the light—the sun that spilled through from above, spotlighting the scene beneath it. Like there was a crack in the top of the sky itself.

“Blake…look at that.”

Snapping out of her trance, she glanced at Yang, who was pointing in front of them, at the distant structure directly under the light. A temple, it looked like. The architecture was simple compared to other temples she’d seen, and it was half-consumed by creeping vines. But the marble figures at the top of the path leading up to it, the twin tigers, their bodies coiled as if leap at any moment, to sink claws into flesh, their lips curled back over large, white fangs—their presence told her all she needed to know.

Yang’s brow furrowed. “Some kind of shrine to the Gods, you think?”

“No.” Blake didn’t let go of Yang’s hand just yet, though she knew she would have to eventually. “This is probably…a tomb.”


	11. The Ring

The path leading steeply up to the temple was slightly serpentine, the edges of it dropping off sharply into a still, clear pool below. Blake peered down at it, catching her own dark reflection, the stalagmites poking out of the water like the spikes at the bottom of a tiger pit. Any missteps here would probably be somebody’s end.

“What do you mean _tomb_?” Yang asked, trailing behind Blake. She spoke in a hushed voice, as if out of respect for the departed. Or like she was doing her best not to stir anyone, or anything, awake.

Blake gestured to the statues. “Look at those. White tigers. In Menagerian culture, they’re traditional guardian spirits of the dead. Mostly for the tombs of royalty.”

“Right. So the fact that we’re about to intrude…”

“Scared of ghosts?”

Yang smirked. “More like this place has taught me to be suspicious of ancient structures.” Her smile fell a little. “I guess that means that we found Matahari and Bulan. And maybe our ring.”

That almost stopped her up short. Strange to think that the thing they’d been looking for all this time, the reason they had anything to do with each other in the first place, was seemingly almost within reach. Blake felt something twist in her stomach like a dull knife when she realized that. It wasn’t nerves. It was a colder feeling than that, one she almost wouldn’t let herself name. Yang suddenly felt so far away from her on the path.

And, admittedly, part of Blake had been hoping the story of Matahari and Bulan was just that, a story. Pure legend. That they hadn’t been mortal, after all. That they hadn’t died—in exile, hidden away in the mountains. After going to the trouble of committing the gravest taboo imaginable, defying the laws of life of death. After tearing everything else apart.

But that hope flickered out completely the moment Blake approached the temple. Yang seemed to notice, too, passing Blake on the path, stooping to take a closer look at the guardians. “Blake, look. The eyes.”

Set into the contorted, marble faces—on the right, smooth, pale moonstones with their strange, bluish centers (as if glowing from within). And on the left, sunstones, flecked with gold, glittering under the skylight. Not that she really needed more evidence to convince her of who this tomb was for, but something about it, the immediate, unmistakable symbolism, the concreteness of it, only made her feel sick.

“We shouldn’t stay too long,” Blake said.

“Right. We should…find what we came for before the Fang catches up with us.” Yang stepped back, gesturing for Blake to lead the way. She wouldn’t really meet Blake’s eyes, though. “Shame that you can’t, um, study this place for a bit longer.”

Honestly, that hadn’t even been the first regret on her mind, not even close. She wondered what Yang would think of that. If Yang felt that same thing, that feeling like a pit had opened up in her. They passed under an intricate stone archway, carved figures and animals brimming over every tier of it. It reminded her of the watchtower. Blake thought of that night, the soft cadence of Yang’s voice, the way they’d unfolded into each other, and only felt colder.

The temple, itself, was something entirely else to take in. The roof had long since been eaten away by time, vines and pale, diffused beams of light spilling in. Everything else was sparkling in the dimness like a jewelry box, dazzling and opulent, filled with all kinds of priceless artifacts that could probably fund half a sizable militia on their own. Glancing around, Blake’s eyes caught on small, ornate chests and patterned vases—the delicate designs that looked like constellations, like old monarchs, like mythical creatures—and silver plates like mirrors and what looked like, on some sort of altar, beneath the centuries of dust and tarnish, a large, smooth urn.

“Definitely a resting place befitting royalty,” Blake said, hesitating at the entrance. “But…who do you think built all this?”

Yang, halfway across the threshold, glanced back at her. “What do you mean?”

“After the Gods left this realm, Matahari and Bulan escaped and lived the remainder of their lives in exile. That’s what all the stories imply.” Before, she could dismiss the contradiction with the idea that they were only figures of folklore, so baked into the symbolism of the Gods that they eventually became next to deified themselves. Cautionary tale that they were. But the urn, the temple, the buried signs of their realness—it all demanded another kind of justification entirely. After everything they’d done, after all the darkness they’d brought on Menagerie, why had they been… _honored_ like this?

“The Gates, the murals, the temple—if the legend was _real_ this whole time, at least in part, and if they really _were_ responsible for the things the stories said they were…who was left to erect all these structures? To immortalize them like this?” Blake stepped into the room, picking up a small, curved sword from where it was propped up on a table. Not unlike the one Matahari was often illustrated carrying, with its beak-like handle. “Who was left who even _wanted_ to remember them?” she added quietly, drawing the sword, seeing her own eyes reflected back at her in the blade.

It was funny, they no longer looked like a stranger’s to her. The shape of them, the color, didn’t even remind her of her parents’ eyes. They were just her own. She was just left with herself.

Yang wandered past her, her arm lightly bumping Blake’s back as she did. She brushed her hand across the top of a small, black chest, clearing dust away from the top of it. “Maybe the Ancients had a change of heart.” Yang paused, her gaze seeming to catch on something else. “Hey, there’s something about that shrine, though.”

She made a beeline for the far wall of the temple, the altar with the urn, the scattered offerings. Blake noticed too late, though, the discoloration of the floor right in front of it, the perfect, mouth-sized holes the perforated the stone.

“Yang, _watch it_ —”

Blake yanked her backward—a fraction of a second before long metal spikes shot up through those holes in the floor. Yang fell back heavily into the circle of Blake’s arm, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. Blake slowly righted herself, her other hand coming up to grip the hem of Yang’s shirt. The spikes sunk back down into the floor when Yang’s boot shifted off of the stone that had triggered the mechanism.

She stayed like that for a moment, her back pressed to Blake (who felt the heavy thud of Yang’s heartbeat through her spine), too stunned to move a muscle. Though, after another long moment, Yang let out a sigh and turned to her. “Booby traps? _Really_?”

“That’s a new one for me, too,” Blake said.

“Well, _fuck_ , thanks for saving my skin again. Things just jump out at you in Menagerie, don’t they,” Yang muttered, stepping gingerly around the trap in the floor. She tapped the other stones experimentally with her toe before deciding they were probably safe. “So, before the whole mortal peril thing—”

“The shrine?” Blake finished.

Yang nodded. “Right, I noticed _this_.” She gestured to the base of the altar, the figures carved out of marble like the tigers at the entrance. “Don’t they look familiar?”

They did. They were robed figures, the hoods patterned with eye shapes, holding staffs. Against each of their throats laid a crescent-shaped necklace. Their stone faces peered outward, contorted fearsomely as if to discourage intruders.

“Bridgewalkers,” Blake said, kneeling down in front of them.

Yang touched the top of the altar with her fingertips. “They seem pretty protective of this shrine. And I’m not just saying that because I almost died just now.” 

It was frustrating, but something about it still hadn’t clicked into place for her. Bulan’s transgression had already meant the clean severing of their ties to the Gods, but when the Gods had abandoned Faunuskind, that meant the rest of the Bridgewalkers had lost their connection to the divine realm, as well. In other words, the Bridgewalkers had become defunct as a social class, had lost all status in an instant. Blake found it hard to fathom why they would go to such lengths to honor the lovers, to build monuments, shrines, tell stories about them, when they’d been damned by their choices, as well.

Blake stared at the urn, the smoothness of it. It looked surprisingly untouched for its age. She imagined that if there were really ashes within, they were Bulan’s and Matahari’s both. Death hadn’t separated them even the second time around.

“I don’t see the ring, Blake,” Yang said, after a beat. Even though Yang had said it gently, it still jolted her, as if someone had come and shaken her roughly awake. (How could she have forgotten it so fast, the reason they were here? The reason she’d come back to Menagerie to begin with, back to this country that was literally gods-forsaken?) Yang went on, still so quietly, “I…don’t think it’s here.”

Blake bowed her head, exhaling slowly through her nose. It was bitter to admit it, but Yang was probably right. After everything they’d been through, after all their close calls, after facing down monsters and the things that were even more dangerous than _that_ time and time again—they had almost nothing to show for it.

And she doubted Adam would be so forgiving when he caught up to them and found them empty-handed.

Yang touched her shoulder, hovering above her, still. “Blake, we can still—”

“Knock, knock, Your Highness. Is this a bad time?”

Blake shot to her feet, white-hot panic flooding her in an instant, and for a moment she expected to see Adam there, standing at the entrance of the temple with his hand on his sword. Instead she saw Yuma, leaning up against the frame, like he was bored. His oil-black wings filled the doorway, blocking out the light. His gun, though, and his gaze—those things were trained on them intently.

Yang’s lip curled, and she started toward him, but Blake stopped her. She slowly raised her hands, motioning for Yang to do the same. Yang didn’t seem to understand, but something about what she read in Blake’s eyes made her, after a moment, step back and put up her hands, as well.

Seeming satisfied with that, Yuma crossed the threshold, sauntering toward them, leading with his gun. “Looks like you’ve finally got nowhere to run,” he said.

Blake felt the corner of the altar dig into her hip. “You might be right about that.”

He stopped just short of them, his wings throwing jagged shadows across the floor. “Where’s the ring?”

Yang, sounding like she suddenly understand the game Blake was playing, chuckled softly, jerking her head to gesture over her shoulder. “The altar.” And then, as if she couldn’t help driving in the nail, “But a pawn like you would never get your hands on it, anyway.”

Yuma’s eyebrows shot up for a moment, like somebody had finally surprised him. Then his face darkened with anger. He took a step closer, thrusting the gun in her direction. “Let’s see how smug you are when—”

His next step was the wrong one. His boot fell heavily on a discolored tile and the spikes shot up between them, sudden and razor-sharp. Yuma let out a strangled cry, harsh in his throat, as a spike pierced entirely through his forearm, the gun clattering to the ground.

Blake grabbed Yang’s arm as he struggled. “Come on. We don’t have time to waste on him.”

They ran toward the temple’s entrance, and at first it looked like no one else had made it up yet, that Yuma had only been sent ahead as a scout. But the moment she passed through the threshold, a hand shot out toward her, seizing her by the back of her head.

“You always have to make things troublesome,” Adam grunted, dragging her as she fought him, yanking painfully at the roots of her hair. She clawed at his wrist, but he didn’t let her go. In his other hand, his sword was already drawn, gleaming dangerously. “Don’t you, Blake?”

“ _Blake_ —”

Twisting to look behind herself, Blake saw Ilia drop down from her perch on the roof of the temple, driving her heels into Yang’s back, knocking them both to the ground. Yang could barely put a hand up to catch herself in time, her head bouncing off of the stone, splitting the skin right above her brow. Yang struggled, trying to turn under Ilia’s knee, managing to grab Blake’s weapon, still slung over Ilia’s shoulder. But Ilia knocked it out of her hand, and it clattered to the far side of the circular temple grounds. Blake fought him harder, even though she could feel her roots tearing.

Adam stopped, suddenly heaving Blake upright so that her back was to him. “You know…” His voice was close enough that it sent a wave of nausea through her. “It doesn’t have to be so complicated. So _painful_. But you make it that way, Blake. Like you just can’t help it.” He hissed in pain when Blake threw her elbow as hard as she could into his side, but his hold on her didn’t relent even then. He leveled the edge of his sword against her throat, stilling her. “That’s enough. _Ilia_.”

Blake’s eyes shot up to Yang who was crouched now in front of Ilia, breathing hard, wiping the trickling line of blood from her face with the back of her hand. Ilia had her blade on Yang. She inclined her head toward Adam, but couldn’t seem to bring herself to really lift her gaze. “I’ve got the human under control,” she spat, her grip tightening just a hair.

Blake couldn’t be completely sure, but it looked like Adam had left the rest of the Fang aboveground to save himself time, like he was confident about his chances even three on two. And even now, when the sides had evened, he didn’t seem troubled at all. “The ring, Blake,” he said, calmly. Calmer than the cold, sharp press of Wilt’s blade on her skin suggested. “Where is it?” When Blake didn’t say anything, he sighed, like it was all so tiresome to him. “Ilia.”

Ilia slashed the point of her blade across Yang’s bicep, tearing the sleeve of her shirt, drawing a deep line of red that seeped into the fabric. Yang hissed, her body jerking backward. She pressed her hand to her arm to staunch the bleeding. “The longer you don’t talk, the worse it gets for you,” Ilia snapped, her expression stony. Though—and maybe Blake was just imagining it—the hand at her side seemed to tremble almost imperceptibly before she curled it into a fist.

Blake found she couldn’t steady herself, either. She couldn’t make herself go numb, lose her feeling—she felt everything as her mind raced. Maybe it was true that she’d forgotten part of herself, that she’d forgotten some of the lessons Adam had tried to etch into her, the things he’d tried to make her believe. But she at least remembered one thing: the bone-handled hunting knife he still kept on his belt. Remembering that, she could push all the rest of it, almost all of the pain, to the back of her mind, just for a moment.

“There is no Matahari’s ring,” she said, drawing out every syllable.

She felt her words register in him like a shockwave, and his hold on her went slack just by a hair. When, after a long, dazed moment, he finally spoke, his voice was less like a whisper than a rattle, verging on something darker. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Blake barely even understood _herself_. Across the temple grounds, she caught Yang’s stunned expression, mirroring her own. But she said it again, in a stronger voice, “There _is_ no Matahari’s ring. It…it probably never existed.”

Before he could respond, Blake, taking advantage of his dropped guard, his sword lowering from her throat, reached behind herself, finding the knife handle and wrenching it from its sheath—drawing it sharply upward. The blade cut cleanly through her hair, which Adam still gripped tightly in his fist, and he shouted and jumped back as Blake broke free, holding his bleeding hand.

Blake’s dark hair fell over her eyes, and she scraped it back from her forehead, feeling distantly surprised at how soon it ended, the choppy edges of it not even falling to the top of her shoulders now. She stood, her stance wide, holding the knife between them. He was the one who’d taught her how to fight, too. She probably didn’t stand a chance against him one-on-one, especially not with just the old hunting knife.

But she wasn’t about to die here, either. Her back was half-turned to Yang and Ilia, but she could still feel the press of Yang’s gaze, she thought. At least, she felt stronger just knowing Yang was there. Just knowing that whatever happened, she wouldn’t be standing there alone.

Adam’s face, turning back to her, was hard with rage. He clasped his injured hand to his chest, the glove split across the palm, his fingers curling slowly over the wound. She’d broken his composure, that much was evident, but he still seemed determined to cling to it, to raise his sword and pretend like he was still the one in control. He laughed, but the sound of it rang hollow. “Lying to buy yourself time, Blake? That’s not very original.”

“It’s not a lie,” Blake said, fighting to keep her voice even. “I think I’ve finally figured out what the inscription meant by ‘endless twilight.’ It was talking about Bulan. _All_ of the Bridgewalkers, and what being chosen by the Gods really meant for them. How it changed them.”

Behind her, Ilia finally spoke up. “Blake…I don’t want to drag this out any more than you do, so—”

“Bulan was immortal,” Blake said, interrupting her. That seemed to settle somehow even heavier in the air than the revelation about the ring had. Finally, Blake was starting to understand her own words, to untangle the threads she’d been given, every detail, every mystery. Like something caught at the end of a fishing line was being lifted up through the water, the shape of it slowly coming into view. “Bulan and the other Bridgewalkers were given immortality by the Gods. They were chained to eternal life…eternal _servitude_.”

Adam’s face twitched. “I’m no expert like you claim to be on the Ancients,” he said, tersely, “but that seems like quite the leap in logic, my love. Bulan died a mortal death. All the stories say it. And if that temple _actually_ holds Bulan’s remains, that just proves it, doesn’t it? You’re going to have to try a little harder to make excuses for yourself.” 

“And the thing that Matahari _restored_ , the reason the Bridgewalkers honored her in death…”

They both turned to Yang, who was getting unsteadily to her feet. Ilia looked too stricken to stop her, multiple emotions flitting across her face at once. Yang nodded to Blake, the ghost of a smile on her lips, before her eyes slid to Adam and narrowed. “If you were smart, you would’ve learned to stop doubting her intuition by now, you know.”

Adam answered her with a sneer, wrenching his sheath from his belt, compacting it into its shotgun form. His sword still trained on Blake, he aimed Blush at Yang’s head. Though he seemed to have trouble holding it steady in his wounded hand. “I don’t recall asking for your advice, mercenary.”

Yang didn’t flinch as she stared him down. She went on, speaking slowly, clearly. “The thing that Matahari restored to Bulan? It wasn’t their life. It was their _mortality_.”

Blake felt a small flush of pride in her chest. “See, she understands it. And she’s not even an expert.”

Somehow, though, that felt like the sharpest turn of the knife yet, the cruelest part of the story. Matahari hadn’t committed a taboo, after all. She’d only restored the natural order of life and death, only freed the person she loved from an endless half-life. It was the Gods who had made that first, unthinkable transgression.

Ilia stumbled back half a step, her shoulders bowing inward. “But…what about the _ring_? What about the power Matahari stole from the Gods?” Her voice was distant, incredulous.

Blake looked from her back to Adam, smiling grimly, trying not to shrink back from the waves of volatility she could feel rolling off of him. “Translation is tricky like that. Just like the historians in the books misunderstood restoring a mortal life as a _resurrection_ , they also misunderstood what the Ancients meant when they described a ‘ring.’ They interpreted it as something physical, something you could hold in your hands, but… The Ancients thought of day and night, the turn of the seasons, life and death, as one big circle.” She drew the shape in the air with her hand. “A cycle. A ring.”

Adam finally seemed to understand it. Finally seemed to grasp the truth. He cursed, wheeling sharply, striking the guardian statue behind him with the sole of his boot, sending it tumbling over the edge of the rocky precipice. He’d deserted his composure now completely. That fragile division in him, the fogged up glass, had shattered. Now all that was left was the pacing, dangerous thing waiting just behind it. He turned slowly back to her. “I think I’ve gotten tired of giving you second chances, Blake.”

His sword blurred red into her periphery, as impossible to track with the eyes as the flick of a Naga’s tail. Blake barely had time to raise the knife to defend herself before it was knocked roughly from her hand. The knife, in a flash of silver, disappeared over the edge, clattering faintly against the cavern rocks below.

He raised his sword again, preparing to deal the killing blow (Blake could barely even feel the weight of that fact, that she was about to die), but the next moment, he jumped back as a bullet ricocheted off the stone right at his feet.

“What are you doing…?” Ilia held Lightning Lash in its folded pistol form, her eyes wide. “You said you wouldn’t really hurt her.” Colors appeared and disappeared on her skin like ripples on water. Bright yellow to red, red to the deepest blue, and back again. Yang, a few paces away, gaped at the scene, looking as speechless as Blake felt.

Adam sighed, smoothing his hair, shifting his weight to one foot. “Do you know why it is I’ve kept you around this long, Ilia?” He didn’t wait for her to answer; Blush raised to her. “It’s because you do the things you’re told.”

Ilia’s hand trembled, but she didn’t yield to his threat. “Lately, I’ve been questioning that.” She said the words like she had glass in her mouth, like it hurt her just to admit that much. She went on despite it. “I’ve been thinking that Blake had the right idea in leaving.”

For a moment, Blake could see the fury stirring in him like a storm, his lip curling back from his teeth, but it passed the next moment. And all that was left was his cold apathy, his lack of surprise outmatched only by his complete lack of remorse. The same feeling, or less, that someone would have discarding a weapon with a broken blade. “Fine,” he said. “Then feel free to join her.”

But the moment he pulled the trigger, Ilia did, too. The bullet seemed to strike him in the center of his face, making his head snap back from the impact. Ilia cried out as the Dust round burrowed down into the soft part of her shoulder. She stumbled backward.

“ _Ilia_.”

As Blake moved toward her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Adam pull himself upright as if in slow-motion, throwing aside the shattered mask. She saw the furious scar burned into his skin, looking exactly the same as she remembered, the dead eye seeming, somehow, to fix to her as he lifted his gun again.

And then Yang appeared between them, spilling into Blake’s vision like firelight materializing suddenly out of the empty dark, and she kicked it out of his hands. The gun discharged the bullet wide, missing Blake by a foot.

Yang didn’t wait for him to find his bearings. She pivoted, slamming her fist right into his jaw, sending him flying backwards.

She glanced quickly at Blake, backing up to stand at her side. Her hand brushed Blake’s elbow, sending a small, comforting warmth through her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Blake watched Adam stir from where he was laid out on the ground, struggling to drag himself to his feet, his chest heaving. “I’m fine. But Ilia—”

“Adam’s got shit aim,” Yang said. Though her voice went gentler when she added, “She’ll be alright.”

She returned her attention to Adam, who had stumbled upright, who was holding his face as he staggered, his good eye finding Blake through the space between his fingers. His eyes were blue—she always forgot that. Strangely innocent-looking in a face that was always so cold, so hard with that endless, insatiable rage. But there was an emptiness to them, too. Like the void of the sea that had risen up to meet the careless fisherman.

Yang raised her fists. “But first we have to deal with _him_.”

Blake tensed, as well, staring ahead. “ _Give up_ , Adam. Just…give up. No one has to die if you walk away now.”

Adam’s hand fell from his face. “There it is,” he said, with a sharp laugh. “That coward’s heart of yours. I tried my best to break those habits, but you just… _clung_ to it.”

He’d made her believe that so many times, she thought, quietly amazed. So many times she wouldn’t even be able to count them. But believing him felt impossible now. Suddenly, it all seemed so thrown-open, so obviously, so unmistakably, a bare-faced lie. Like how the shapes that loomed large and unsettling in a dark room, that crowded the shadows, were so small in the gray morning.

“The only one I see clinging to cowardice right now is _you_ ,” Yang said, visibly bristling. “That and your own pride. Blake’s right. No one has to die if you just surrender.”

He tilted his head, almost quizzical, still smiling. “You’re both practically unarmed. Would you die to protect her, human? _Her_? The moment you turn your back to her, you’ll find a knife in it. The promises she makes are empty ones.”

“They were promises made to a two-faced, manipulative bastard,” Yang said, her brows shooting up. “So I don’t think they count.”

Adam took a step toward them, but Blake made him pause. “I’ve always wondered, Adam,” she said. “I’ve always wondered why you did it, taught me everything you knew about fighting. About how to defend myself, how to kill. Was it just your ego? Or did you seriously never expect me to use the things I learned against you?”

His one, blue eye widened for a moment in surprise. Like he’d never even considered the reason for it. The point of his sword lowered, scraping the ground. “I think some part of me always knew you would,” he murmured, in what seemed like a startling, singular moment of honesty. “But you leaving, turning your back on me…that really caught me off-guard.”

Blake swallowed. “You thought you could poison me, turn me into someone like you.” In her head, Blake saw creeping vines, how they absorbed everything else into them, how they strangled the life out of everything they touched. There was no other way they could seem to live but by consuming. “You thought I would inherit it from you, all of that spite.” Even if she lost herself in it. Even if she burned up in it. Blake wondered if he’d ever felt anything close to love for her at all. “But you were wrong.”

Adam stood there for a moment longer. He bowed his head, looking strangely, just for a second, like someone praying. Though Blake knew better than to think he was looking to atone for anything.

Then, suddenly, the hand at his side twitched, dragging the edge of his sword sharply upward toward Yang, flinging a cloud of dust and grit into her eyes. Yang reeled back, lowering her guard long enough for Adam to lurch forward off his back foot, Wilt’s shining point plunging toward Blake.

Blake dodged, just barely, bloodying the palms of her hands against the stone as she tumbled to the side—that was the one thing, at least, that she could be grateful he’d taught her. How to think fast, move faster. How to survive. But when Adam’s sword struck only air, he adjusted his stance in an instant, swinging the edge at Yang, who was still blinking dust out of her eyes.

“ _Yang_ —”

Blake could barely cry out her name before Yang blindly threw her metal arm up, the sword glancing off hard enough to throw her off-balance. Adam spun and drove the sole of his boot into her diaphragm, knocking her flat on her back. She rolled onto her side, gasping to recover her breath.

Adam turned back to Blake. He advanced on her, sending her scrambling backwards on her scraped palms. His sword slashed the ground as she rolled away. When she righted herself again, she felt something beneath her palm, the cold press of metal. But she didn’t dare take her eyes from Adam for even a second. Or from the point of the sword he pressed beneath her collarbone, directly over her heart.

There was no feeling to be found in his face. In the end, he only knew masks, she thought. He only knew how to hide, to stagnate. How to kill the things he couldn’t control. “You and I were destined to meet, Blake,” he said. “I really thought that once.”

Blake raised her chin, defiant, but sadness filled her, too, out of place, hard to justify even to herself. “What part of it looked that way to you?”

“You had _nothing_.” The sword pressed harder, piercing through fabric. Blake felt its pinprick on her skin, the blood seeping into the shirt. “No family, no allies. No country. You came to me with nothing, and I gave you what you wanted. A _purpose_. So, you see? We were fated. We were going to change the _world_ together, but you threw that all away.”

Blake had believed in that once. Maybe part of her still believed in it, destiny. The thread you followed down that had already been spooled out beneath you. But she also thought that sooner or later, those lines ended. There was a point where everybody had to let go of it and fall, even without knowing where they’d land. Or who would be standing beside them.

They were never going to change the world together. She at least knew that much. And Adam, himself, had never had any intentions to change, either. Her hand inched across the ground, her fingers curling around a familiar handle.

“A destiny like that,” Blake said, finally feeling steady again. Just like she’d learned in that yellow field in Anima. “Who would ever choose it?”

Adam’s eyes flew wide. He raised Wilt above his head at the same time Blake took up Gambol from where it’d fallen. If this was her so-called destiny—dying for this, to stop him, dying for Menagerie, for _Yang_ —so be it. It filled her with more anger than she could even completely fathom, to think she’d come this far just to be struck down by _him_ in the end, but she’d already decided that she was done with standing still and waiting for it all to be over. And she was done with running.

In the end, Matahari hadn’t run from anything, either. She’d gone to the mountains not to grieve, but to show Bulan the way to follow. Blake shut her eyes as she drove her blade forward. She felt it the moment she pierced his heart—the sickening ease of it. The way the warmth of blood ran down the blade, spilled over her wrists.

But nothing else. Maybe she’d died without even feeling it. She opened her eyes slowly and saw Yang standing over her, breathing hard, her hair falling around her shoulders in disarray. In her trembling metal hand, directly over Blake’s head, she gripped the blade of Adam’s sword.

Adam’s wide-eyed gaze fixed to Blake for a moment, his face slack with shock. Blood bloomed darkly around her sword, around the place where it had sunken cleanly into his chest. _Oh_ , he mumbled, almost voiceless, like he’d finally understood something.

Blake jerked Gambol free, and Adam lurched forward, the light going out of his eyes as he tumbled over the edge of the precipice, down into the cavern’s teeth below.

After a frozen moment, Yang tossed Wilt aside and dragged Blake into her arms, gently uncurling Blake’s fingers from Gambol’s hilt—she was gripping it so tightly without even realizing it, so tightly it was painful.

“Blake,” she murmured, into her hair.

Blake had started shaking, too, and then, as the moment caught up to her, she was sobbing. She didn’t know why. She didn’t have any sadness or sympathy left for him. But there was something about the way that things had to unfold—or maybe the way things had unfolded because of the choices they’d made. There was still something that broke her heart even though she hadn’t thought it was possible.

She pressed her face into Yang’s shoulder. “I’m…I’m sorry, Yang, I—”

“Hey— _hey_ , you don’t need to apologize for anything.” Yang pulled back to look at her, to look into her eyes, holding Blake’s face between her hands. “Blake, none of this is your _fault_. It isn’t. And we…we’re still in this together, okay? You and me. Just like you said.”

_Half of it, half of that hurt, I can carry_. That was what Yang seemed to be telling her.

Blake pressed her forehead to Yang’s and closed her eyes. Something about the way Yang was looking at her, the way those eyes made every nerve in her feel like an exposed wire, made it hard to really meet them. She didn’t know exactly why that apology had bubbled up in her, either. Maybe she was just remembering how readily she’d accepted it—dying. She’d fought against it, felt anger over it, but in the end, she’d shut her eyes and accepted it. As if there had been no other way it could’ve ended.

She opened her eyes again to find Yang still looking at her, her face blurred and soft this close to her, through the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. Blake’s hand rose to touch Yang’s wrist. She should’ve known better than to think Yang would accept it lying down, either.

“You and me…” Her voice wavered in her throat like a tiny flame. “You can change your mind. You should.”

She didn’t think she really meant that, though. Even though their mission was over, even though they were at the end of their line, Blake still hoped Yang would be standing there after the freefall. Maybe that was selfish of her to hope. Maybe Yang wouldn’t mind that it was selfish.

But Yang smiled. Somehow, Blake felt it more than she saw it, that answer. Like sunlight. “I can,” she admitted, pressing her lips to Blake’s forehead, lingering there for a moment. She pulled back again. “But I think it’s a bit late for me, don’t you?”

~

Yang’s fingers in Blake’s hair were light, the press of them warm against her scalp. “Hold your head still,” she muttered, the words half-muffled around the scissors in her mouth.

Blake obeyed with a small grin, sitting upright. The river, the Heart, stretched out behind them, the distant trees growing more distant, the sun sinking down behind them. Turning the water dark. The boat swayed gently beneath them, bearing them along back to the city.

Ilia stood at the helm to steer, one arm neatly in a sling. It was strange to think, that Ilia’s word in the end, her orders to clear out of the Heart and leave the temple untouched, had been the thing that had spared them. Without Adam, and with Yuma out of commission, Ilia seemed the obvious interim leader.

Blake supposed that, now that they’d severed the head, Adam’s splinter group would dissolve before long—fresh-faced kids playing at soldier, most of them, with no one left to give them purpose. The scramble for power would rage on, of course, but without someone of equal ambition driving half of that cause along, Blake doubted it could last. She hoped that meant Menagerie could finally, could one day, start to heal. That the White Fang could remember itself, that the people waving its banner could remember what they’d been fighting for in the first place. Though that just meant there was plenty of work ahead of her. Ahead of all of them.

Ilia glanced back at Blake, offering a small smile. “She’s going to cut it uneven at this rate.”

Yang chuckled, gently turning Blake’s head again. “So. Guess you’re gonna be kept busy for a while,” she said. Blake wondered if she imagined the note of sadness in her voice.

For a moment, the only sound between them was the soft snip of the scissors. Then, Blake said, quietly, “I’ve been thinking…before Menagerie, before the Fang, I want to go back to Vacuo for a while. Find my mom.”

Yang’s hands stilled for a moment. “I was thinking I wanted to go home, too.” She resumed, and Blake felt the itch of cut hair against her neck. It sounded strange for both of them— _home_. Blake wondered how either of them could really define that, all things considered. But it was nice to imagine they could learn. “See Ruby, my dad. I’m scared of how they’ll react, though.”

“Well, if first impressions were everything…” Blake trailed off, charitably. Yang snorted under her breath, flicking Blake’s nape. She went on, earnestly now, “I know they’ve missed you all this time. That should be enough, I think. No matter how hard it might be.”

Yang, seeming to sense Blake was just as much reassuring Yang as she was herself, made a gentle noise of agreement. She set the scissors down, parting Blake’s hair, mindful of the ears.

“And…after that?” she asked, after an even longer silence had stretched between them.

She sounded as hopeful as Blake felt. Blake knew she wasn’t imagining _that_. “Missing me already?” she asked, but her blood sang in her ears so loud she could barely even hear herself.

In the corner of Blake’s eye, Yang shrugged, but then she spun Blake around in her chair to face her. “What do you say, potentially, to one last gig?” She looked down then, laughing almost shyly. “I know this one didn’t exactly pan out, but…”

“What did you have in mind?”

Yang blinked and glanced back up at her. After a moment, though, she relaxed into a smile. “Back in Mistral, I heard rumors around the Tribe that Raven has her eye on some runaway Atlesian heiress.”

“Atlesian, huh,” Blake sighed, but she felt her ears prick up, regardless.

“Did I mention this heiress has something in her possession that a lot of people would want to get their hands on?” Yang’s eyes glinted. “Be a shame if someone like my mother got to it first, don’t you think? Who knows _what_ she’ll do with it?”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Blake said, leaning toward her, but Yang could probably already see it in her eyes. Her real answer.

“Good.” Yang sat back, looking at her just a little too fondly. She pulled a small mirror from her bag and handed it to Blake. “Alright, all done. What do you think?”

She almost started as she took in her own reflection. Her mother had always told her how beautiful her long hair was. Adam had always discouraged her from cutting it, too. But there it was, shorter than it’d been in a long, long time. Shorter than she’d ever imagined it.

Blake caught an end of it between her forefinger and thumb, and then reached for Yang’s hand, twining their fingers together.

“I think I look…a little more like myself,” she said. And she felt herself becoming it, too. Lately, she’d felt it unfurling in her chest a little more every second.


End file.
